THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


IRISH  ON  THE  PRAIRIES, 


OTHER    POEMS. 


BY 

REV.  THOS.  AMBROSE  BUTLER, 


NEW    YORK: 
D.  &  J.  SADLIER  &  CO.,  31  BARCLAY  STREET. 

MONTREAL : 

Corner  Notre-Dame  and  St.  Francis  Xavier  Sts. 
1874. 


Entered  According  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

THOS.    AMBROSE   BUTLER, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


Stereotype 


SURPLUb 


.<*•> 


Cb«mlH  n 


25  fc  IT  New  Cf>4nb.n  St.  N.  Y. 


PS 

1235 


DEDICATED 


HIS  FAITHFUL,  LOVING  FRIENDS 


IN     THE     "OLD     LAND 


IN     THE     NEW 


THE   A  UTHO  R. 


il 


PREFACE. 


"T^HE  Author  sends  forth  this  little  book  of 
Poems,  on  its  precarious  journey,  with  no- 
small  amount  of  diffidence.  It  contains  the  sim 
ple  fruits  of  many  pleasant  hours  of  literary 
labor  in  the  bright  domain  of  Poetry — hours  in 
the  years  of  youth  and  early  manhood,  and  in  the 
noon  of  life. 

Some  of  the  following  Poems  have  already  ap 
peared  in  the  Dublin  "Nation"  above  the  nom  de 
plume  "  Eblana  ;"  others  are  to  be  found  in  recent 
numbers  of  the  New  York  "Emerald"  and  some 
have  lately  been  inserted  in  numbers  of  "Irish 
Penny  Readings"  Many,  however,  have  never, 
until  noiv,  been  brought  forth  to  seek  the  favor  of 
the  reading  public.  Amongst  the  latter  is  the 
principal  poem  of  the  volume — "  The  Irish  on  the 
Prairies" 

The  Author  cherishes  a  hope  that  ''  The  IrisJi 
on  the  Prairies"  will  be  a  welcome  guest  to  the 


vi  PREFACE. 

exiles  of  Erin;  will  be  deemed  worthy  of  the 
place  assigned  to  it  as  usJicr  to  the  other  Poems 
of  the  volume  ;  will  be  found  a  faithful  exponent 
of  Irish  feeling  in  the  "  Old  Land"  and  the  New; 
and  a  genuine  index  of  the  sentiments  of  a  '•  Sog- 
garth  Aroon" 

Many  of  the  minor  Poems  have  been  composed 

in  the  Author  s  lonely,  happy   home,   beside  an 

Irish    chapel,    in    the   shadows    of   the   hills   of 

Wicklow,  where,  as  a  "Country-Curate"  the  early 

years  of  his  missionary  life  glided  calmly  along. 

Some  have  been  composed  in  the  home  of  the 
exile,  beside  the  rolling  prairies  of  Kansas,  in 
tranquil  moments,  after  the  busy  priestly  labors 
of  the  day. 

Go  forth,  little  book  !  into  the  wide  world  of 
Literature.  May  your  simple  pages  bring  bright 
ness  to  the  eyes  of  many  exiles  of  Erin,  and  a 
gleam  of  sunshine  to  the  hearts  of  loved  ones  far 
away. 

T.  A.  B. 
CATHEDRAL,  LEAVENWORTH, 

KANSAS,  September,  1873. 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS. 

PAGE 

THE  IRISH  ON  THE  PRAIRIES  : 

Parti. — Introductory  .         .         .         .n 

Part  II.— New  and  Old  .         .         .18 

Our  Future        .          .          .          .  '   .          .44 

The  Exodus      .         .         .         .         .         .         .47 

The  Nation's  Muster-Roil  ....       49 

The  Old  Year 52 

Avon-Liffey        .         .         .         .         .         .         -55 

The  Lost  Home        ......       59 

The  Church       .......       64 

A  Retrospect     .......        67 

The  Birth  of  the  Spring    .....       70 

Dreams     ........        72 

A  Prison  Scene          .         .         .         .         .         .        73 

Glendalough 78 

Elegy  on  my  Sister  ......       85 

Commemoration  Day         .....       88 

Godless  Teachings     .         .         .         .         .  91 

Doctor  Yore 94 


viii  Contents, 

PAGE 

Dalkey 97 

Our  University  ......      103 

Ode  on  Washington's  Birth-Day         .         .         .107 
Winter  in  Town        .         .         .         .         .         .no 

A  Prologue       .         .         .         .         .         .  1 1 1 

SONGS. 

The  \Vicklow  Vales    .         .         .         .  .  .117 

The  Dance        .         .         .         .         .  .  .120 

My  Lovely  Isle,  Adieu !    .         .         .  .  .122 

Gazing  Westward        .         .         .         .  .  .124 

O,   Lovely  Land!       .         .         .  .  .126 

Hunting  Song  .         .         .         .         .  .  .128 

The  Friends  whom  I  Loved  Long  Ago  .  .130 

The  Green  Flag         .         .         .         .  .  -131 

"God  Save  Old  Ireland"           .         .  .  .133 

There's  Music  midst  the  Mountains  .  .  .136 

Farewell,   Dear  Land !                  .         .  .  .138 

Irish-American  Brigade       .         .         .  .  .140 

The  Hurlers      .......      142 

The  Fiddler      .         .         .         .         .  .  .145 

From  Far  Away         ......      147 

The  Little  Bit  of  Land 149 

Faithful  unto  Death            .         .         .  .  .151 

A  Green  Sod  from  Erin    .         .         .  .  .153 

The  Exile's  Love      .         .         .         .  .  .155 

Christmas  on  the  Prairies           .         .  .  .157 

The  Fenian  Name     .         .         .         .  .  .159 

Farewell  of  the  Irish  Maiden  160 


POEMS. 


THE 

IRISH  ON  THE  PRAIRIES. 


PART    I 


INTRODUCTORY. 
I. 

JOME,  heap  up  the  logs  on  the  hearth 
stone,  and  shut  out  the  wintery  blast; 
|To-night,  in  our  snug  little  shanty,  I'll 

tell  you  some  tales  of  the  Past. 
And  while  the  wind  howls  on  the  prairies,  and 

drives  the  white  snow  to  the  door, 
I'll  visit  in  fancy  the  Old  Land,  and  stand  on  her 

Emerald  shore. 
'Twill  lift  up  a  load  from  my  old  heart,  and  calm 

all  my  longings  awhile, 

To  live  o'er  the  Past,  and  to  speak  of  the  scenes 
of  that  beautiful  isle. 


12  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

'Twill  cheer  me  to  fill  your  young  bosoms  with 

love  for  the  suffering  land — 
To  make  you  feel  proud  of  Old  Erin,  and  ever 

her  foemen  withstand. 


II. 


The  Old  Land!— the  Old  Land!  I  love  her, 
though  naught  of  her  form  can  be  seen — 

Though  thousands  of  miles  of  the  prairies  and 
billowy  seas  intervene — 

Though  want  and  affliction  surround  her,  and 
tyranny  tramples  her  down, 

And  leaves  her  oppressed  and  dejected,  —  de 
prived  of  her  sceptre  and  crown. 

Not  thine  is  the  fault,  weeping  Mother  !  thy  chil 
dren  are  leaving  thy  breast, 

To  seek  o'er  the  billowy  ocean  a  home  in  this 
land  of  the  West. 

Poor  Queen  !  there  are  hearts  that  still  love  thee, 
and  hands  that  would  strike  for  thy  fame, 

Though  traitors  still  fawn  to  the  tyrants,  and 
sycophants  blush  at  thy  name. 


The  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  13 


III. 


Is   Poverty  hateful,  degrading  ?     Is  Sorrow  de 
serving  of  scorn  ? 
Can  man  make  you  hate  the  Old  Island -the 

land  where  your  father  was  born  ? 
Is  false-hearted  Britain  so  pow'rful,  that  far  o'er 

the  boisterous  sea 
The  lies  and  the  taunts  that  she  utters  reecho 

midst  homes  of  the  free  ? 
Is  Freedom  a  phantom,  delusion,  to  tempt  the 

sad  exile  to  roam 
To  climes  where  the  sun-light  of  Justice  shall 

never  illumine  his  home  ? 
Is  man  what  his  Maker  intended,  on  mountain 

and  prairie  and  plain — 
As  free  as  the  winds  of  the  heavens  that  sweep 

o'er  the  waves  of  the  main  ? 


IV. 

But   Patrick,  my  son  !    if  they  taunt  you,  and 

smile  as  they  utter  your  name, 
Forget  not  the  Saint  of  my  Country-rejoice  in 

the  light  of  his  fame. 


14  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

And  tell  to  the  scoffers  the  glories  that  shone 

on  his  banner  of  old, 
When  back  from  the  skies  of  Old   Ireland  the 

darkness  of  Slavery  roll'd. 
When  high  on  the  green  hills  of  Erin  the  ensign 

of  Calvary  rose, 
An  emblem  of  hope  to  the  Christian,  a  sign  of 

defeat  to  his  foes, — 
A  banner  we  planted  wherever  the  foot  of  an 

Irishman  trod — 
We  march'd  in  the  steps  of  Our  Master — we 

fought  the  great  battles  of  God  ! 

V. 

And  Brigid,  my  darling !  midst  many  the  Faith 

of  your  Mother  avow, 
Nor  suffer  a  blush  for  a  Virgin  to  mantle  your 

cheeks  or  your  brow  ; 
But   proudly  acknowledge   Saint    Brigid — "the 

Mary  of  Erin  " — whose  name 
Was  honor'd  in  ages  departed,  and  shines  through 

the  annals  of  fame. 
The  lamp  of  the  convent  whose  splendor  beamed 

forth  like  a  beautiful  star, 


The  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  15 

Illuming  the  path  of  the  maidens  who  came  to 

her  shrine  from  afar, — 
Who  came  where  the  heart  found  a  treasure  that 

earth  could  not  ever  afford — 
A  gift  that  is  offered  by  Heaven  to  virgins  who 

follow  the  Lord  ! 


VI. 

Sweet  love  of  our  Faith  and  our  Country ! — for 
ever  unfading  they  last, 
Like  ivy-leaves  twining  together  round  desolate 

wrecks  of  the  Past, — 
Round  abbeys  whose  gables  have  fallen, —  round 

castles  whose  turrets  are  gone, — 
Round  towers  that  stand  up  majestic,  in  valleys 

deserted,  alone, — 
Round    ruins    of    churches    whose    steeples    oft 

echoed  the  voice  of  the  bell, 
But  totter'd  and  crumbl'd  in  tempests,  and  rang 

their  own  funeral-knell, 
And  mingled   their  dust  with  the  valleys' — an 

emblem  of  patriots  brave, 
Who  fall  on  the  breast  of  their  country,  and  find 

in  its  bosom  a  grave  ! 


16  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

VII. 

God's  blessing  be  ever  upon  thee,  my  beautiful 

isle  far  away ! 
May  tempests  ne'er  shatter  thy  beauty,  may  time 

never  bring  thee  decay  ! 
But  ever  be  noble,  though  fallen,  and  ever  be 

lovely,  though  lone — 
If  Mother  of  Sorrows  yet  smiling  midst  tears  for 

her  sons  who  are  gone  ! 
O  !  tyrants  can  never  destroy  thee  !    O  !  sorrows 

can  never  deface 
The  hope  that  has  liv'd  through  the  ages,  and 

gladdened  the  suffering  race  ; 
Nor  exile  and  happiness  banish  remembrance  of 

days  that  have  fled. 
No!  no!  —  by  the  Past  and  its  sorrows!     Ah! 

no,  by  the  graves  of  the  dead  ! 

VIII. 

My  children !  we  fled  from  the  famine — the  evil 

that  tyranny  made, — 
And  exiles  o'er  seas  and  the  prairies  in  search  of 

some  happiness  stray'd. 


The  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  ij 

We  found  it  afar  from  Old  Ireland  ; — but  often  I 
think,  with  a  sigh, 

Far  better  to  live  in  "  the  Old  Land," — far  better 
in  Erin  to  die  ! 

To  live  on  a  little  contented,— to  manfully  strug 
gle  awhile, — 

To  go  to  the  grave  of  my  fathers,  and  sleep  in 
the  Sanctified  Isle. 

Far  sweeter  to  follow  old  customs,  and  live  like 
our  fathers  of  old, 

Than  wander  a  stranger  midst  peoples,  and  die 
in  the  struggle  for  gold  ! 

IX. 

But  now  let  us  heap  up  the  fire-wood,  and  sit  in 
the  light  of  the  blaze  ; 

The  snow  is  still  falling  and  drifting,  and  day 
light  in  heaven  decays  ; 

And  everything  seems  to  incite  me  to  picture 
the  Present  and  Past, — 

The  scenes  in  the  Old  Isle  of  Beauty,  and  here 
where  my  fortune  is  cast — 

The  contrast  between  home  in  Ireland  and  here 
in  "the  Land  of  Free," — 


1 8  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

Between  the  New  World  with  its  greatness,  and 

olden  lands  over  the  sea  : 
To  show  you  why  often  at  even'  my  mind  seems 

to  wander  astray — 
My  heart,  like  a  bird  in  its  prison,  is  throbbing 

for  Erin  to-day ! 


PART    II. 


NEW   AND    OLD. 

I. 

A  MERICA  !    Parent  of  Freemen  !    who  once 

as  a  giant  arose, 
And  shook  off  the  shackles  of  Britain,  and  scat- 

ter'd  the  merciless  foes  ; 
Who  summon'd  the  nations  in  bondage  to  come 

to  the  home  of  the  free — 
From  crumbling  old  kingdoms  of  Europe,  from 

suffering  isles  of  the  sea. 
To  come  to  the  cities  uprising  on  mountain  and 

valley  and  plain, 
Beside  the  great  lakes  and  the  rivers,  beside  the 

wild  waves  of  the  main. 


The  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  19 

To  come  to  the  prairies  out-stretching  for  thou 
sands  of  miles  far  away, 

Where  buffalo  graze  though  the  meadows,  and 
timorous  antelope  stray. 


II. 

They  answer  the  call  of  Columbia — gallant  dis 
ciples  of  toil — 
And    Commerce   is    thron'd   in   the    cities,    and 

Labor  is  lord  of  the  soil. 
And    under    "the    Star-spangled    Banner"   the 

native  and  foreigner  stand, 
As  noble  Apostles  of  Freedom  and  props  of  the 

prosperous  land. 
And  grand  is  the  stride  of  the  nation  in  all  that 

exalts  and  redeems, 
And  joyous  the  face  of  her  children,  enliven'd 

by  Liberty's  beams. 
And  newness  and  freshness  surround  her,  unlike 

the  Old  Country's  decay. 
The  night  of  her  bondage  is  over — she  woke  to 

a  happier  day ! 


2O  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

»• 

III. 

How  youthful  the  nation  appeareth,  wherever 
the  wanderer  goes ! 

How  strong  while  the  stream  of  new  people,  like 
blood  through  her  arteries  flows ! 

How  new  to  the  eye  of  the  Exile  the  face  of  the 
cities  that  rise 

With  magical  force  from  the  forests  and  lift  their 
young  heads  to  the  skies  ! 

No  sign  of  antiquity  near  them  ;  no  ruins  of  cas 
tle  or  hall  ; 

No  palace  of  baron  or  tyrant  ;  no  ivy-clad  tot 
tering  wall ; 

No  mark  to  betray  to  the  passer  the  dwelling  of 
sorrow  and  care  ; 

No  sign  of  oppression,  for  Poverty  stalks  not  the 
streets  in  despair  ! 


IV. 

Away  midst  the  flow'rs  of  the  prairies,  beside 

the  green  woods  of  the  West, 
"The  Settler"  is  raising  his  cabin, — the  red-bird 

is  building  her  nest, 


TJie  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  21 

Where  naught  of  the  noise  of  the  cities,  or 
breath  of  its  tumult  or  strife, 

Can  reach  to  the  ear  of  the  peasant,  or  ripple 
the  stream  of  his  life. 

E'en  there,  midst  the  oldest  of  forests,  the  new 
ness  of  life  can  be  seen, — 

E'en  there  is  the  foot-print  of  Freedom,  where 
trail  of  the  savage  has  been, — 

E'en  there,  far  away  from  his  kindred,  the  Exile 
from  Erin  appears, 

With  hopes,  reawak'd  in  his  bosom,  that  slum- 
ber'd  in  gloomier  years. 

V. 

My  children  ! — the  home  of  my  fathers — the  spot 
where  my  being  began — 

The  scenes  of  my  youthful  affection — how  fair  to 
the  vision  of  man  ! 

The  cot  on  the  hill,  midst  the  hedges,  whose 
walls  were  as  white  as  the  snow — 

The  valleys,  with  vesture  of  verdure,  where  sil 
very  rivulets  flow ! 

The  meadows,  where  "butter-cups"  mingle  with 
"  daisies"  at  birth  of  the  May, — 


22  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

The  woods,  where  the  black-birds  are  piping 
their  notes  through  the  length  of  the  day, — 

The  mountains,  in  majesty  standing,  as  sentinels 
guarding  the  vales, 

With  brows  that  are  furrow'd  by  streamlets,  and 
wrinkl'd  by  wintery  gales  ! 

VI. 

Out  here  on  the  beautiful  prairies  the  scene  is 
delightfully  grand, 

For  signs  of  the  richest  fertility  cover  the  face 
of  the  land, 

And  waves  of  the  brightest  of  verdure  are  roll 
ing  forever  amain, 

When  Winter  releases  the  meadows,  and  lifts  up 
his  garb  from  the  plain. 

But  sameness  of  scene  is  before  us  ;  for  Nature, 
though  lavish  of  stores, 

Bestow'd  not  the  gift  of  variety  found  on  "  the 
Emerald  shores." 

But  far  through  the  boundless  dominions  a  prai 
rie,  or  forest,  appears, 

As  changeless  in  form  as  the  ocean  that  roll'd 
through  the  thousands  of  years. 


The  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  23 

VII. 

Around  on  "the  Settlement"  gazing,  the  Exile 

can  never  behold 
A  scene  to  remind  him  of  Erin — a  home  like  his 

fathers  of  old  : 
The  hedges  of  hawthorn  and  sallow — the  furze, 

with  its  yellowish  flow'r — 
The  trees  that  are  standing  majestic,  by  hillock 

and  cottage  and  bower. 
Ah,  no  !     We  have  left  them  forever,  and  rude 

are  the  dwellings  we  see — 
The  huts  of  the  logs  of  the  forests,  of  branches 

of  many  a  tree, 

And  rough  are  the  fences  surrounding  the  con 
fines  of  many  a  home. 
O  !    naught  like  the  hedges  of  Ireland  we  find 

wheresoever  we  roam  ! 

VIII. 

'Tis  true  in  our  home  on  the  prairies  we've  plenty, 
we've  riches  in  store, — 

'Tis  true  that  the  tyrannous  "Agent"  can  threat 
en  my  people  no  more, — 


24  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

'Tis  true  that  the  land  that  we  toil  on  is  ours' 
and  our  children's  alone, 

And  free  on  the  soil  of  the  freeman  we're  rich  as 
a  king  on  his  throne. 

But  O  !  how  I  long  for  the  laughter  that  rose 
round  my  home  far  away  ; 

The  music  of  mirth  that  was  swelling  by  fire 
sides  at  close  of  the  day  ; 

The  jokes  and  the  tales  of  the  neighbors,  whom 
sorrows  could  never  o'erthrow. 

Ah  !  here  the  heart's  music  is  wanting  we  heard 
in  the  years  long  ago  ! 

IX. 

When  Summer  goes  over  the  waters  and  smiles 
on  our  Emerald  Queen, 

How  lovely  the  look  of  the  valleys  !  how  pleas 
ant  each  sun-lighted  scene  ! 

How  cheering  at  mid-day  to  wander  adown  by 
the  meadows  and  streams, 

Not  dreading  the  sun  in  the  heavens,  but  loving 
the  glance  of  his  beams. 

For  never,  as  here  on  the  prairies,  does  sun-light 
oppress  or  destroy ; 


The  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  2$ 

It  smiles  and  it  dances  in  Erin — it  lights  up  the 

spirits  with  joy. 
And  welcome,  as   flowers  of  the    May-time,   is 

Summer  all  over  our  isle  ; 
For  man,  like  the  flow'rs  of  the  valleys,  revives 

in  the  light  of  its  smile. 

X. 

What  sports  we  enjoy'd  in  the  meadows,  when 

labor  had  ceas'd  for  the  day  ! 
What  joy  and  excitement  apparent,  when  "hurl- 

ers  "  prepared  for  their  play ! 
What  lively  emotions,  as  onward  the  strugglers 

to  victory  sped  ! 
Ah  !  where  are  the  friends  of  my  boyhood  ?     I 

sigh  for  the  years  that  have  fled. 
I  sigh  !  for  my  wealth  cannot  purchase  such  joy 

as  I  felt  long  ago  : 
The  peace  of  the  poorest  of  peasants — the  calm 

that  the  rich  never  know. 
I  sigh  on  the  breast  of  the  prairies,  and  pray 

that  kind  Heaven  may  smile 
On  homes  and  the   hearts  of  my  people  who 

dwell  in  the  Emerald  Isle. 


26  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

XI. 

Alas  !  I  can  never  recall  them — the  scenes  'neath 

the  shadowing  trees — 
The  light-hearted   "Piper,"  whose  music  arose 

on  the  wings  of  the  breeze  ; 
The  men  and  the  maidens  who  joyously  join'd 

in  the  dance  on  "the  Green," 
And  danc'd  till  the  sun-light  departed,  and  dark 
ness  came  down  on  the  scene. 
But  hold  !    I  will  sing  you  a  ditty — a  song  of  the 

Dance  in  the  Glen  ! 
To  lilt  a  sweet  air  of  my  country  will  cheer  up 

my  spirits  again. 
So  stir  the  red-logs  and  be  silent,  or  join  in  the 

chorus  with  me ; 
We'll  joyfully  sing  of  the  customs  of  father-land 

over  the  sea. 

THE   DANCE. 

^AiR — Billy  O'Rourke  ma  bouchal.] 

THE  Summer-sun  is  laughing  down, 
And  o'er  the  heather  glancing  ; 

We'll  haste  away  ere  close  of  day, 
To  join  the  peasants  dancing 


TJie  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  27 

Beneath  the  ivy-clothed  trees 

That  guard  the  farmer's  dwelling1, 
And  softly  shake  their  leafy  bells, 

While  music's  strains  are  swelling1. 
We'll  haste  away,  we'll  haste  away, 

Along  the  scented  heather  ; 
We'll  join  the  merry  peasant  band, 

And  "trip  the  sod"  together. 

•r- 

From  silent  glen,  from  mossy  moor, 

From  cabin  lone  and  dreary, 
They  come — the  friezed  and  hooded  band, 

With  spirits  never  weary. 
With  hearts  so  light  that  sorrows  ne'er 

Can  break  their  sense  of  pleasure — 
The  Irish  heart  that  laughs  at  care 

Is  bless'd  with  brightest  treasure. 
We'll  haste  away,  we'll  haste  away, 

Along  the  scented  heather  ; 
We'll  join  the  merry  peasant  band, 

And  "trip  the  sod"  together. 

The  stars  will  peep  amidst  the  trees, 
Their  light  with  moonbeams  blended, 


28  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

Before  the  music  dies  away, 

Before  the  dance  is  ended. 
And  joke  and  laughter,  wild  and  free, 

Ring  round  the  farmer's  dwelling, 
And  lithesome  limbs  keep  measur'd  time 

Where  Irish  airs  are  swelling. 
We'll  haste  away,  we'll  haste  away, 

Along  the  scented  heather  ; 
We'll  join  the  merry  peasant  band, 

And  "trip  the  sod"  together. 

As  long  as  happy  Irish  hearts 

Are  throbbing  through  the  Nation — 
As  long  as  Ireland's  exiled  sons 

Are  found  on  God's  creation — 
As  long  as  Music's  thrilling  strains 

Can  wake  a  sweet  emotion, 
We'll  save  the  customs  of  our  sires, 

At  home  and  o'er  the  ocean. 
We'll  haste  away,  we'll  haste  away, 

Along  the  scented  heather  ; 
We'll  join  the  merry  peasant  band, 

And  "  trip  the  sod  "  together. 


The  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  29 

XII. 

But  ah  !  in  our  home  on  the  prairies,  when  day 

has  arrived  at  its  close, 
The  toiler  is  worn  with  his  labor — the  weari'd  is 

wanting  repose. 
Forever,  forever  so  eager  to  gather  the  wealth 

that  deprives 
The  heart  of  its  lightness  and  brightness,  and 

darkens  the  path  of  our  lives. 
O  !    brighter  the  hut   of  the  poorest,  wherever 

contentment  is  seen, 
Than  dwellings  where  trouble  is  brooding  —  the 

palace  of  chieftain  or  queen. 
And  sweeter  to  live  in  the  Present,  than  wander 

in  thought  far  way, 
Nor  wish  for  a  gleam  of  the  Future,  but  live  in 

the  light  of  To-day. 

XIII. 

No  music  is  heard  in  our  shanty,  no  music  is 

heard  on  the  plain, 
No  music  amidst  the  wild  forests,  where  silence 

and  solitude  reign. 


30  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

No  notes  but  the  lays  of  the  songsters — the  birds 

in  the  Spring  of  the  year, — 
In    days   when    the    Summer    is    reigning,    and 

flow'rs  in  the  valleys  appear. 
No  piper  e'er  plays  on  the  prairies,  no  peasants 

e'er  dance  in  the  glen, 
No  maidens  of  Erin  e'er  warble  the  songs  of  their 

childhood  again, 
But  sit  in  the  shade  of  their   dwellings  when 

Summer-sun  sinks  to  his  rest, 
And  sigh  for  the  beautiful  Summer  that  smiles 

on  "  the  Land  of  the  West  ! " 

XIV. 

The   Sunday!  —  how   welcome   in   Erin!  —  how 

happy,  how  blest  is  the  day  ! 
The  dawn  of  its  morning  seemed  ever  to  drive 

the  dark  sorrows  away. 
And  even  in  wildest  of  weather,  when  Winter 

was  roughest  of  mien, 
The  Angel  of  Peace  was  beside  us,  and  smiled 

on  the  gloomiest  scene. 
And  like  to  the  voice  of  the  Seraphs,  who  sang 

to  the  shepherds  of  old, 


The  Irish  on  t/ie  Prairies,  31 

The  bell  of  the  church  in  the  village  its  musical 

melody  roll'd, — 
A  voice   to   awaken  devotion  —  a   summons   to 

haste  to  the  shrine, 
And  kneel  at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  to  worship 

the  Master  Divine ! 


XV. 

From    many  a   home    on   the    mountains,   from 

many  a  hut  in  the  glen, 
From  many  a  cot  in  the  valleys  there  came  forth 

a  streamlet  of  men  : 
The  young  in  their  spring  of  existence,  the  old 

in  their  time  of  decay, 
Went  forth  in  the  light  of  the  Sunday  to  haste 

to  the  chapjel  to  pray. 

The  aged,  with  tottering  footsteps,  with  eager 
ness  moved  in  the  throng  ; 
The  young,  in  the  flush  of  their  vigor,  proceeded 

with  swiftness  along. 
And  like  to  the  rivulets  spreading  in  streams  o'er 

the  breast  of  the  land, 
The  maidens  and  boys  of  the  parish  out-spread 

into  many  a  band. 


32  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

XVI. 

The    Chapel! — the   old    parish   Chapel!  —  ah! 

fondly  my  fancy  recalls 
The  form  that  it  ever  presented — the  hue  of  its 

mouldering  walls  ; 
The   quaint-looking   windows    and    arches,    the 

tow'r  where  the  cross  was  display'd  ; 
The  statue  of  Joseph  the  Patron,  and    Mary — 

Immaculate  Maid. 

The  font  where  the  worshippers  halted  to  sprin 
kle  their  brow,  and  to  pray 
A  blessing  on  home  and  its  people,  and  peace 

through  the  sanctified  day. 
The  porch  where  we  enter'd  how  sombre  ! — the 

altar  how  simple  and  bright  ! 
It  gladden'd  the  heart  of  the  wearied,  and  fill'd 

the  devout  with  delight. 


XVII. 

Not  far  from  the  old  parish  Chapel,  and  nigh  to 

a  sheltering  wood, 
The  mould'ring  remains  of  an  abbey  in  tottering 

majesty  stood. 


The  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  33 

The  ivy  was  over  the  ruins — the  freshness  of  life 

with  decay — 
The  ivy  will  flourish  for  ages,  the  walls  will  soon 

moulder  away ! 
Around  are  the  graves  of  our  fathers — they  sleep 

in  the  sanctified  dust, 
With  the  Saints  and  the  Martyrs  beside  them — 

the  bones  of  beatified  just. 
They  sleep  where  QO  sorrows  can  reach  them, 

and  under  the  Emerald  sod  ; 
They  rest  'neath  the  grass  of  Old  Ireland,  and 

near  to  the  temple  of  God. 

XVIII. 

Ah  !  oft,  ere  the  bell  of  the  chapel  had  summon'd 

the  people  to  pray, 
I've   sat   midst    the    tombs  of  the  vanish'd,   or 

join'd  with  the  children  in  play  ; 
Or  listen'd  with  boyish  emotion  to  patriot  spirits 

who  told 
Of  hopes  in  the  future  of  Ireland — her  struggles, 

her  sorrows  of  old. 
Or  heard  the  fond  parent  relating  the  news  from 

his  sons  o'er  the  sea, — 


34  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

From  homes  on  the  breast  of  the  prairies — from 
lands  where  his  children  are  free, 

Till,  stirr'd  by  the  words  of  the  speakers,  my 
spirits  in  tumult  arose, 

With  love  for  the  land  of  my  fathers,  with  hate 
for  her  merciless  foes  ! 


XIX. 

Loud  sounded  the  bell  in  the  turret, — "  his  Rev- 

'rence"  appeared  on  the  way — 
The  Speakers  retir'd  to  the  chapel  —  the  little 

ones  ceas'd  from  their  play  ; 
And  hearts  that  had  sorrow'd  a  moment,  and 

lips  that  had  spoken  of  pain, 
Were  moved  by  the  voice  of  Religion,  and  la- 

bor'd  for  heaven  again. 
And  earth  and  its  cares  were  forgotten,  and  hope 

of  a  future  above 
Arose  midst  the  lights  of  the  altar  that  typify 

Catholic  love : 
The    love    that   no   gloom    can   extinguish,   no 

tyrant  of  earth  can  destroy, 
That  cheers  the  fond  heart  of  the  mother,  and 

follows  her  wandering  boy. 


The  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  35 

XX. 

The   mothers!    the    poor   Irish   mothers! — ah! 

many  have  wept  by  the  shore, 
And  sobb'd  as  they  parted  from  children  —  the 

lov'd  who  will  see  them  no  more. 
And    many   have    borne   through   the   future    a 

wound  that  no  science  could  heal — • 
A  wound   that  is   like  to   heart-breaking,   that 

none  but  a  mother  can  feel ! 
How  many  have  found  naught  to  comfort,  no 

solace  their  trouble  to  calm, 
No  hope  through  the  length  of  existence  to  pour 

o'er  their  spirits  a  balm, 
But   that  which   the   faith  of  our   Fathers  and 

Christ  in  His  temple  afford — 
The  faith  and  the  hope  of  a  meeting  beside  the 

great  throne  of  the  Lord  ? 

XXI. 

There's  solace  when  under  "The  Stations"  the 

mothers- in  solitude  pray, 
And  follow,  in  spirit,  "The  Mother  and  Son"  on 

"  the  dolorous  way  ;  " 


36  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

And  mingle  their  sorrows  with  Mary's,  and  stand 
by  Her  under  the  Cross, 

And  fill'd  with  the  thought  of  Her  dolors,  forget, 
for  a  moment,  their  loss. 

Forget  all  the  world,  and  the  troubles  that  dark 
en  the  pathway  of  years  ; 

Remain  in  the  gloom  of  the  Passion,  and  give  to 
the  Saviour  their  tears  ; 

Then  offer  the  loss  of  their  children  a  sacrifice 
up  to  the  Son, 

While  praying  the  will  of  the  Father,  not  theirs', 
may  for  ever  be  done  ! 

XXII. 

But  here,  in  the  wilds  of  the  prairies,  the  Sunday 

no  joyousness  brings — 
No  heart,  like  a  lark  in  the  morning,  with  feeling 

of  happiness  sings ; 
No  dawning  of  hope  with  the  daybreak  to  souls 

that  are  panting  with  love, 
That  thirst  for  a  drop  from  the  fountains  that 

spring  in  the  Kingdom  above. 
No  music  of  bells  from  a  distance — no  crowds  of 

"parishioners"  pass, 


The  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  37 

And  offer  a  glad  salutation  as  onward  they  haste 

to  "the  Mass; 
Or  come  with  us  back  from  the  chapel,  and  sit 

for  awhile  in  our  cot, — 
Ah,  friends  still  at  home  in  Old  Ireland  !  how 

sadly  I  envy  your  lot  ! 

XXIII. 

The  Sunday  arrives  with  its  silence.     No  labor 

of  sinewy  hand — 
No  sound  of  the  axe  in  the  forests — no  plough 

in  the  bountiful  land  ; 
But  rest  in  the  home  of  the  exile — a  rest  for  the 

body  alone  ! 
The  mind  is  as  active  as  ever  —  it  flieth  to  days 

that  have  flown. 
A  chapel — "a  church,"  as  they  call  it — is  many  a 

mile  to  the  west, — 
Within  it  the  birds  of  the  prairies  in  Winter  have 

shelter  and  rest. 

No  voice  to  disturb  them  at  morning — no  bell- 
tones  to  scare  them  away  ; 
For  seldom  the  priest  can  attend  us,  and  stand 

at  the  altar  to  pray. 
4 


38  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

XXIV. 

The  church  on  the  breast  of  the  prairies — how 

humble,  how  shatter'd,  how  lone  ! 
Its  frame-work  is  warping  and  rotting — the  grass 

on  its  pathway  has  grown. 
Its  roof  in  the  Winter  is  clothed  with  snow,  that 

unmelting  remains 
As  long  as  the  drifts  in  the  forests,  or  flakes  on 

the  face  of  the  plains  ; 
For  seldom  the  breath  of  the  fire-wood  is  felt 

through  the  cold  of  the  year, 
And  seldom  in  Winter  our  footprints  upon  the 

white  pathway  appear. 
Alone  !  all  alone  on  the  prairies !  alone  on  the 

sanctified  ground ! 
Ah  no !  for  invisible  angels  are  hovering  ever 

around  ! 


XXV. 

The  altar  !  Ah  !  think  of  the  manger — the  cra 
dle  where  Jesus  was  laid 

That  morning  when  angels  of  beauty  stood 
round  the  Immaculate  Maid. 


The  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  39 

Ah  !  think  of  the  crib  and  the  stable,  and  star 
light  that  fell  on  the  floor  ! 

Respect  the  low  shrine  on  the  prairies,  and  blush 
at  its  poorness  no  more. 

Ah  !  not  a  fond  thought  of  Old  Ireland  the  altar- 
piece  ever  recalls ; 

No  church  on  the  prairies  presents  us  the  hue  of 
the  mouldering  walls 

Of  chapels  that  stand  in  the  valleys,  where 
streams  through  the  fatherland  flow — 

O  God  !  for  one  hour  in  the  chapel  where  oft  I 
have  prayed  long  ago  ! 

V 

XXVI. 

On  Sundays  when  Mass  is  expected,  the  settlers, 
at  dawning  of  day, 

Are  seen  in  the  woods  on  the  prairies,  that  lie 
from  the  church  far  away. 

They  come  in  their  lumbering  wagons,  their  lit 
tle  ones  seated  a-near, 

At  times  when  the  Summer  is  smiling,  and  often 
in  "  Fall "  of  the  year  ; 

But  seldom,  when  Winter  is  howling,  the  wagons 
are  seen  on  the  plain  ; 


4-O  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

At  home  by  the  stove  in  the  shanty,  the  mother 

and  children  remain. 
And  seldom  a  worshipper  walketh  to  Mass  as 

they  do  in  our  land, — • 
We  miss  the  bright  streamlets  of  peasants,  we 

meet  not  a  juvenile  band. 


XXVII. 

No  crowds  in  the  shades  of  the  chapel — no  little 

ones  running  around  j 
No  tombs  midst  the  trees  in  the  valley  to  tell  of 

the  sanctified  ground  ; 
No  "Soggarth"  like  him  whom  we  honored  as 

"father"  in  Erin  of  old, 
Whose  voice  on  the  altar  was  pleasant  as  ring 

of  the  purest  of  gold  ! 
'Tis  true  that  we  honor  our  Pastors,  whatever 

the  land  of  their  birth, — 
'Tis  true  that  we  worship  our  Maker  wherever 

His  temple  on  earth  ; 
But  O  !  what  a  joy  to  the  Irish — to  exiles  what 

heavenly  boon  ! 
To  hear  in  the  church  on  the  prairies  the  voice 

of  their  "Soggarth  aroon  !" 


The  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  41 

XXVIII. 

No  fount  with  its  water  so  holy  is  found  in  the 

Winter-time  there, 

For  sprinkling  the  brow  ere  the  worshipper  en 
ters  the  temple  of  prayer. 
No  "spring"  on  the  hill-side  is  bubbling — no 

"wells"  that  are  blest  can  be  seen, 
Like  those  that  are  holy  in  Ireland,  and  sprinkle 

her  garment  of  green  : 
The  "wells"  where  the  pilgrims  are  halting  and 

sad  ones  are  seeking  relief, 
Where  sick  ones  are  freed  from  their  troubles, 

and  cur'd  by  the  strength  of  belief — 
By  faith  such  as  faith  is  in  Erin — the  faith  that 

no  pow'r  could  destroy — 
That  lives  in  the  hearts  of  our  people,  and  lights 

the  lone  cabin  with  joy ! 


XXIX. 

O  !  often  in  slumbers  of  midnight  I  dream  of  my 

isle  o'er  the  sea, 
And  see  her  all  radiant  with  beauty — the  home 

of  the  happy  and  free. 


42  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies. 

And  often  I  dream  that  the  island  is  like  to  a 

barque  far  away — 
A  green-painted  ship  that  will  reach  us  before 

the  first  dawn  of  the  day. 
O  God  !  if  the  waves  could  upheave  her  and  bear 

her  in  majesty  o'er, 
To  rest  in  the  sunlight  of  Freedom  beside  the 

American  shore  ; 
Or  if  this  invincible  nation  would  wrench   her 

from  tyranny's  chain, 
Then,  then  I  would  fly  to  Old  Ireland,  and  rest 

on  her  bosom  again. 

XXX. 

My  children  !   mayhap  in  the  future,  beside  this 

lone  home  in  the  West, 
Some  heart-broken  exiles  of  Erin  may  seek  for  a 

shelter  and  rest, 
Some  other  lone  wanderers  settle  on  prairies  as 

rich  as  our  own, 
Till  round  on  the  wild  a  New  Ireland  of  beauty 

and  pow'r  shall  have  grown. 
Then  down  in  the  woods  in  the  even'  the  voice 

of  the  village  shall  ring — 


The  Irish  on  the  Prairies.  43 

Then  out  on  the  prairies  the  maidens  the  songs 

of  Old  Erin  shall  sing — 
Then  sports  that  we  lov'd  in  Old  Ireland  shall 

rise  up  again  to  the  view, 
And  plant  all  the  joys  of  "  the  Old  Land  "  amidst 

the  bright  scenes  of  "the  New." 


XXXI. 

O  Patrick  in  heaven  !  smile  ever  adown  on  my 

isle  far  away ! 
O  follow  the  steps  of  the  exiles  wherever  through 

life  they  may  stray  ! 
O  guard  the  bright  treasure  and  freedom  you 

gave  to  our  fathers  of  yore, 
Till  steps  of  your  soldiers  shall  echo  in  triumph 

on  every  shore  ! 
O  aid  us  to  struggle  forever  for  honors  no  tyrants 

can  claim, 
Till  Erin  shall  rise  from  her  sorrows,  and  nations 

shall  honor  her  name. 

Then,  then  will  her  children,  uprising  on  moun 
tain  and  prairie  and  plain, 
With  joy  rush  to  Erin,  their  Mother,  to  make  her 

a  Nation  again  !  » 


Our  Future. 


i. 

A    MOMENT  we  rest  on  our  voyage  of  sorrow, 

Afar  on  the  waters  of  fugitive  Time, 
And  hope  that  the  light  that  will  herald  the 

morrow 
May  show  us   the   shores   of  some   beautiful 

clime. 
That  shadows,  now  dark'ning  the  billows  before 

us, 

May  fade  on  the  rim  of  the  waters  afar, 
And  clouds,  that  are  sailing  in  majesty  o'er  us, 
May  sink  in  the  light  of  some  glittering  star! 


n. 

Oh,  Ireland  !  how  often  thy  patriot  spirits 

Have  look'd  for  a  day  when  thy  sorrows  would 
cease — 


Our  Future.  45 

Have   long'd  for  the  boon  which   the   freeman 

inherits — 
Have  pray'd,  midst  their  tears,  for  thy  happy 

release— 
Have  sent  forth  their  hopes,  like  the  dove  o'er 

the  billows, 
But  homeward  they  came  with  no  branch  of 

the  palm. 

They  found  but  the  seed  of  the  dark  weeping- 
willows — 
No  rest  mid  the  waters — no  promise  of  calm ! 

III. 

The  Future, — in  fancy  I  seek  to  behold  it ; 

To  look  on  the  signs  that  will  usher  its  reign ; 
To  gaze  through  the  shadows  that  thickly  en 
fold  it ; 
To  view  all  the  scenes  that  will  come  in  its 

train  ; 
To  look  to  the  land  where  our  childhood  was 

cherished, 

To  try  if  her  glory  will  glisten  again  ; 
If  Liberty's  soul  mid  her  ruins  has  perished — 
Mid  ruins  of  dwellings  and  corses  of  men. 


46  Our  Future. 

IV. 

Oh  !    think  will   the   flocks   of  the   stranger  be 

straying 
Along    by   the   valleys   where    hamlets    have 

been  ; 
Will   shepherds,    alone,    by   the    streamlets    be 

playing 
The  pipe  that  once  gather'd  a  crowd  to  the 

green  ; 
Will  Celts  in  the  land  of  adoption  be  reaping 

A  harvest  of  glory  in  battle's  career, 
Whilst  far  on  the  shores  where  their  fathers  are 

sleeping 

No   marks  of  their   march  or  their  struggle 
appear ! 

V. 

I  know  not, — but  often  I  think,  with  a  feeling 
Of    sadness   that    borrows   a   pang   from    the 
past, 

How  silently  forward  the  Future  is  stealing, 
Whilst  men  in  our  isle  are  in  lethargy  cast. 

In  gloomiest  season  how  cheering  and  pleasant 


The  Exodus.  47 

To  scatter  the  seeds  of  the  flow'rs  for  the  May  ! 
The    Future    will    tread    in    the    track    of    the 

Present : 

Then,   brothers,   prepare  for  her  coming   to 
day. 


The    Exodus. 


i. 

*T^HEY  r.re  going,  they  are  going  where  Mis 
souri's  waves  are  flowing, 
Where  the  waving  crops  are  growing  for  the 

tiller  of  the  soil  ; 
Where  the    light  of  Justice   beameth,  and   the 

sword  of  Justice  gleameth, 
And  good  fortune  ever  seemeth  as  attendant 
upon  toil. 

II. 

Far  from  Erin  they  are  flying  where  their  fathers' 

bones  are  lying, 

Where  Atlantic's  waves  are  sighing  'round  her 
desolated  shore  ; 


4.8  The  Exodus. 

V/liere  the  streams  of  care  are  welling  'round 

each  simple  peasant's  dwelling, 
And  the  bravest  hearts  are  swelling  with  the 
sorrow  at  their  core. 

III. 

There  are  parents  fond,  endearing ;    there  are 

scenes  yet  bright  and  cheering  ; 
But  an  evil  star  is  peering  o'er  the  dwellings 

of  our  isle — 

O'er  the  cot  amidst  the  bushes,  where  the  shin 
ing  river  rushes, 

Where   the  sparkling  fountain  gushes  like  a 
heart  that  has  no  guile. 

IV. 

They  are  leaving  home  for  ever  ;  and  the  fond 
est  kindred  sever  ; 
And  the  light  of  joy  shall  never  brightly  beam 

upon  their  breast  ; 
Though  the  freeman's  flag  is  o'er  them,  and  a 

life  of  peace  before  them, 
Yet  the   mother  fond  who   bore  them  sighs 
with  sorrow  in  the  West. 


The  Nation's  Muster-Roil.  49 

V. 

Let  them  go  !  may  Heaven  speed  them  !   be  a 

blessed  lot  decreed  them  ; 
But  if  Ireland  e'er  shall  need  them,  may  they 

hasten  o'er  the  sea ; 
May  the   loving  hearts  that  slumbered,  by  the 

weight  of  grief  encumbered, 
Beat  for  Erin's  woes  unnumbered,  and  return 
to  set  her  free  ! 


The  Nations  Muster-RolL 

(The  Irish  Census  of  1861.) 
I. 

T)EHOLD  our  Nation's  muster-roll  to-day — 
Oh  !  how  it  tells  her  sad  and  fallen  state  ! 
Not  midst  her  foes  in  dreadful  battle  fray, 

Did  Erin's  children  meet  the  soldier's  fate, 
Nor  yet  as  beggars  at  their  master's  gate  ; 

But,  proudly  scorning  Ireland's  hated  foe, 
They  left  the  land — in  exiled  homes  to  wait 

For  better  days,  to  strike  a  gallant  blow 

Upon    their    native    fields,   where    Shannon's 
waters  flow. 


5O  The  Nation's  Muster-RolL 

II. 

But  oh  !  for  words  to  rouse  the  dying  fire 
Of  Celtic  love  for  happy  hearts  at  home  ! 

To  boldly  wake  the  bard's  majestic  lyre, 

Till    hearts  would    throb   within   their   living 
dome ! 

Till  now  awhile  our  thoughts  would  sadly  roam 
To  scenes  where  shatter'd  dwellings  lowly  lie  : 

And  then  to  feel  the  tempest's  blinding  foam — 
To  hear  the  winds  of  poignant  sorrow  sigh, 
Till  men  would  start  with  rage,  and  join  in 
Freedom's  cry! 


III. 

Aye,  men !    the  wreck  will   tell   the   tempest's 

force — 

The  pilot's  guile,  or  pirate 's  bloody  sway — 
The  broken  gables  mark  the  spoiler's  course, 

And  give  the  lie  to  cringing  slaves  who  say 
That  Erin's  millions  gather  wealth  to-day. 

The  lordly  prosper — peasants  leave  the  land — 
And  thus,  through  cycles,   Ireland's  hopes  de 
cay  : 


The  Nation's  Muster-Roll.  51 

Each   tide    of  time    that    strikes    the   rugged 

strand, 
Sweeps  off  the  country's  wealth — the  strong, 

the  helping  hand. 


rv. 

But  cease  to  grieve — Jehovah  loves  our  isle, 
Where  faith  has  shone   undimm'd  amidst  the 

gloom — 
Where  hope  and  love  have  sought  His  cheering 

smile, 
Whilst    seated   watching    nigh    the    Nation's 

tomb. 

Oh  !  soon  will  break,  like  summer's  virgin  bloom, 
A  gleam  of  glory  o'er  our  isle's  expanse, 

** 

And  chase  the  shades  that  far  before  us  loom, 
And  wake  the  Celt  from  out  his  heavy  trance, 
To  view  the  Nation's  rise,  and  hail  her  bold 
advance. 


The  Old  Year. 
i. 

A  H  !  the  Year  has  just  departed,  like  a  parent 

broken-hearted, 
When  her  once  sweet-smiling  children  have 

been  gathered  to  the  clay. 
In  the  Winter's  gloom  appalling,  when  the  flaky 

snow  is  falling, 

And  the  earth's  great  heart  is  hardened,  and 
her  grassy  head  is  gray. 

II. 

Nature  seems  o'ercome  with  sadness,  and  she 

feels  no  throb  of  gladness, 
When  the  laughing  Sun  at  mid-day  maketh 

diamonds  of  the  snow  ! 
And  the  voice  of  lamentation  spreads  across  this 

wide  creation, 

When  the  wild  winds,  moving  onward,  with  a 
moaning  accent  blow. 


The  Old  Year.  53 

III. 

Lo  !  the  icy  tears  are  pendant  from  the  turret- 
tops  resplendent, 
And   the   branches  of  the    poplars  raise    the 

morning  plumes  on  high  ! 
And  the  streams  no  longer  hasten,  roaring  from 

the  rocky  basin, 

For  the  ice  has  stopp'd  their  wailings,  and  the 
bosoms  cease  to  sigh  ! 

IV. 
Dead  Year!  —  in  Spring-time's   splendor,  when 

thy  heart  was  soft  and  tender, 
Then  fond  Nature  ope'd  her  treasures — fra 
grant  odors  for  thy  shrine — 
And  poor,  weary  mortals  bless'd  thee,  whilst  the 

beauteous  Spring  caress'd  thee, 
And    they  hoped   for  more   successors  of  so 
prosperous  a  line. 

V. 

Later  on  thy  path  of  duty,  when  the  Summer 

beamed  in  beauty, 

And  the  sunshine  danced  around  thee,  like  a 
truant  child  at  play — 


54  The  Old  Year. 

When  the  brilliant  sky  of  heaven  smiled  upon 

thee  in  the  even', 

Then  thou  seemed  to  wish  to  mingle  all  the 
shades  of  night  with  day. 


VI. 

But   the  voice   of  death  was   calling  when   the 

Autumn  leaves  were  falling, 
And  the  rustling  withered  leaflets  sung  the 

dirge  before  thy  death, 
And  the  clouds  were  edged  with  mourning  when 

the  shades  of  eve  returning, 
Cast  their  gloom  upon  Creation  as  all  Nature 
held  its  breath. 

VII. 

Soon  thy  parent,  Time,  forsook  thee,  and  death 

at  length  o'ertook  thee, 
And  amidst  the  midnight  shadows  thou  wast 

borne  to  thy  tomb, 
And  poor  mortals  missed  thee  sadly  ;  whilst  old 

Time,  careering  gladly, 

Brought    another    New    Year    smiling    from 
amidst  the  Winter's  gloom. 


Avon-Liffey. 


T^vOWN  by  the  silent  glades, 

Under  the  forest's  shades, 

Ever  the  glassy  stream  glideth  along. 

Out  in  its  rural  space, 

Bright  in  its  placid  face, 
Like  a  sweet  spirit  that  knoweth  no  wrong ! 

II. 

See  !  how  the  willows  bend, 

Hailing  their  olden  friend  ; 
Lo  !  how  the  lilies  are  sprinkled  with  spray ! 

Downward  they  bend  awhile, 

As  when  in  sacred  aisle 
People  are  bless'd  by  the  priest  as  they  pray. 


III. 


See  how  the  waters  sweep 
Down  to  the  "Salmon  Leap," 


56  Avon-Li  ffey. 

Eagerly  rushing,  like  children,  to  play. 

Oh  !  how  they  dance  about, 

Raising  a  joyous  shout, 
Leaping  the  rugged  rocks  —  gliding  away. 

IV. 

See  yonder  truant  tide 

Seeking  the  rocky  side, 
Where,  like  a  gem,  the  mill  crowneth  the  hill  ; 

Down  to  the  foaming  wheel 

Softly  the  waters  steal  — 
Laughing  they  roll  it  around  as  they  will. 

V. 

Onward  the  waters  go, 

Down  to  the  bed  below, 
Where  the  white  foam  saileth  ever  around  — 

Stop  not  to  sigh  or  breathe, 

Snatch  but  a  foamy  wreath, 
Emblem  of  glory  that  mortals  have  found  ! 


VI. 


Avon- Liffey.  57 

Far  from  the  odors  of  garden  and  mead, 

Soon  tow'rds  the  city's  hum 

Onward  the  waters  come — 
On  to  Eblana  they  joyously  speed. 

VII. 

Look  through  the  murky  haze, 

Hiding  the  ancient  days, 
On  through  a  hundred  of  decades  of  years, 

Where  o'er  the  rolling  main 

Hasten'd  the  pirate  Dane — 
Lo  !  on  the  Liffey  his  banner  appears  ! 

VIII. 

Later  the  tears  of  slaves 

Dropp'd  in  the  silver  waves  ; 
Liffey  look'd  red  as  it  swept  through  the  vale : 

Blood  of  the  Celtic  race 

Fell  o'er  its  placid  face — 
Ah  !  how  they  triumph'd,  the  Lords  of  the  Pale  ! 

IX. 

Oft  rang  the  Abbey-bells  * 
Out  from  the  holy  cells, 


58  Avon-Li ffey. 

Over  the  water  at  Angelas'  hour  ; 
Lo  !  as  the  music  floats, 
Monks  in  the  fishing-boats 

Pray  to  their  Patroness — speak  of  her  pow'r. 


X. 

Gone  are  the  olden  times, 
Lost,  like  the  Abbey's  chimes — 

Crumbl'd  the  human  clay,  chieftains  and  slaves. 
Yet,  midst  the  ages'  flight, 
Constant  as  Truth  and  Right, 

Rolls  Avon-Liffey  to  Ocean's  blue  waves. 


*  Saint  Mary's  Abbey,  Dublin.  Leave  was  granted  to  the 
monks  of  this  abbey,  in  the  year  1185,  to  have  fishing-boats  on 
the  waters  of  the  Avon-Liffey. 


The  Lost  Home. 


/^OME  sit,  my  son,  beneath  the  shade  where 
Autumn  winds  are  sighing  ; 

The  shadows,  creeping  down  the  woods,  an 
nounce  that  day  is  dying  ; 

And  far  the  murky  clouds  out-spread — the  float 
ing  flags  of  warning — 

Where  Alleghanies'  giant  hills  were  seen  at 
early  morning. 


II. 

Behold  !  my  son,  the  fertile  fields,  where  golden 

grain  is  swelling  ; 
And  far  away  the  crested  pines  thy  brother's  axe 

is  felling  ; 
And    yonder   see   our   cheerful    cot   beside   the 

mountain  river, — 
Thy  father  knows  no  master  here  but  God,  the 

mighty  Giver. 


60  The  Lost  Home. 

III. 
In  other  days,  when  life  was  young,  and  hope 

was  beaming  o'er  me, 
I  lov'd  my  father's  natal  cot — I  lov'd  the  isle 

that  bore  me, 
And  love  it  still  —  the  dear  old  land  —  though 

ocean's  waves  divide  us  ; 
The  thoughts  of  old  and  fancy's  spell  shall  bring 

it  shores  beside  us. 

IV. 
Oh  !  land  of  sorrows,  Innisfail !  the  saddest,  still 

the  fairest ! 
Though   ever-fruitful    are    thy  breasts  —  though 

green  the  garb  thou  wearest, 
In  vain  thy  children  seek  thy  gifts,  and  fondly 

gather  round  thee  ; 
They  live  as  strangers  midst  thy  vales  since  dark 

oppression  bound  thee. 

V. 
My  natal  home  beside  the  glen  !    how  could  I 

cease  to  love  thee  ? 
The   yellow   thatch    was   o'er   thy   walls,  —  the 

beeches  wav'd  above  thee  ; 


The  Lost  Home.  6 1 

Thy  sides  were    like   the  sea-gull's  wings  —  of 

purest,  snowy  brightness  ; 
They  woo'd  the  Sun,   till  round  thy  porch  he 

flung  his  silv'ry  brightness. 

VI. 

Methinks  I  now  behold  thy  smoke  ascend  from 

yonder  thicket — 
Methinks  1  see  my  aged  sire  beside  thy  open 

wicket, 
And  hear  my  brothers'  notes  of  mirth  along  the 

valleys  ringing, 
Where  maidens  o'er  the  milking-pails  the  rural 

songs  are  singing. 

VII. 

Around  thy  hearth,  at  day's  decline,  arose  the 

voice  of  gladness — 
The  fleeting  years,  as  on  they  sped,  flung  in  no 

seeds  of  sadness ; 
And  though  the  swelling  tide  of  care  oft  roll'd 

its  waves  beside  us, 
We  clung  in  hope  around  our  home — no  perils 

could  divide  us. 

6 


62  The  Lost  Home. 

VIII. 
But  ah !    on   sudden,  Famine's   breath   brought 

direful  desolation  ; 
Whilst  tyrants  cast  their  cruel  laws  around  the 

dying  nation, 
And    spurn'd    the    wasting,   wither'd    poor,   for 

help,  for  mercy  crying, — 
The  Saxons  smil'd  with  joy  to  hear  that  Celtic 

sons  were  dying. 

IX. 

My  God,  it  came  ! — the  fearful  gale — against  our 

happy  dwelling  ; 
We  stood  the  fearful  shock  awhile,  though  waves 

of  care  were  swelling  ; 
Whilst,   like  a  monster  midst  the  deep,  which 

loves  the  tempest's  thunder, 
The  lord  who  own'd  our  lands  desir'd  to  see  us 

sinking  under. 

X. 

In  vain  the  hopes  we  fed  awhile  !  in  vain  each 

dear  endeavor ! 
My  father's  fathers'  natal  home  was  lost  to  us 

for  ever ; 


The  Lost  Home.  63 

And  cozy  roof,  and  porch,  and  walls,  were  cast 

to  earth  together, 
And  we,  in  woe,  were  forced  to  face  the  Winter's 

direful  weather. 

XI. 

Alanna !    'neath   their   native   soil  my   parents' 

hearts  are  sleeping — 
Across  their  lonely  grassy  graves  the  shamrock 

leaves  are  creeping  ; 
And   we   are   here   amidst   those   wilds,    where 

tyrants  ne'er  can  bind  us, 
With   lands    as   fertile — not  so  fair  —  as   those 

we've  left  behind  us. 

XII. 

Yes  ;  true,  my  son !  thy  father  dear  has  drunk 

the  bitter  potion  ; 
Yet  often  midst  those  lonely  woods  he  thinks 

with  fond  emotion, 
That  yonder  billows  seek  our  isle — that  gentle 

zephyrs  fan  her : 
Oh !  may  her  exiles  seek  her,  too,  to  raise  her 

drooping  banner  ! " 


The  Church. 


i. 


/^\LDEST   rock   amidst    the   waters  !     boldly 

bearest  thou  thy  brow  ! 
As  in  ages  long  forgotten,  still  unchanged  thou 

standest  now  ! 
And  the  tempests  waste  their  fury  when  they 

strike  against  thy  side, 
And   the  wild  waves,   leaping   at   thee,   fall   in 

drops  into  the  tide. 
Still  they  roll  in  times  of  storms  when  a  mist  is 

o'er  the  skies, 
And  thy  face  seems  dark  with  sadness,  and  the 

raven  round  thee  flies  ! 
But  forever  shall  thy  bold  front  be  as  changeless 

as  to-day, 
Still   as   fearless   in    the    tempest,    and   as   firm 

amidst  the  spray. 


The  Church.  65 

II. 

Grandest  giant  of  the  waters  !    on  thy  head  a 

gem  was  set, 
In  thy  days  of  early  childhood,  and  it  rests  upon 

thee  yet. 

Yet  undimmed  its  pristine  splendor,  but  increas 
ing  through  the  years, 
As   the    Sun,    uprising   slowly,    with   increasing 

light  appears  ! 
And  that  gem  e'er  sparkles  brightly — nations  in 

its  beams  behold 
Brilliant  beacon-lights  of  promise,  like  the  Ma- 

gis'  star  of  old. 
But  never  for  one  moment  shall  its  brightness 

leave  thy  head 
Until  time's  swift  course  is  finished,  and  the  race 

of  man  is  dead. 

HI. 

Oh  !    the  Rock  ! — the  Rock  of  Ages— which  so 

proudly  shows  its  form  ! 
Which  yet  towers  above  the  billows  and  defies 

the  raging  storm, 


66  The  Church. 

Is   the   rock   the    Saviour    promised   when    He 

preached  in  Galilee, 
Where  His  sheep  would  find  a  shelter,  where  His 

Prince  would  fix  His  See. 
And  the  gem  upon  its  summit,  sparkling  through 

the  lapse  of  time, 
Is  the  glorious  Church  of  ages — light  of  life  to 

every  clime. 
Like  a  star  above  the  waters,  peering  through 

the  world's  foam  ! 
Gem  undimmed,  on  Rock  of  Ages  is  the  holy 

Church  of  Rome. 


IV. 

Winds  of  discord  !  strike  ye  strongly  at  the  tur 
ret-headed  Rock ! 

Sea  of  troubles  !  pour  your  waters  with  a  thun 
der-roaring  shock  ! 

Vain  shall  ever  be  your  efforts  ;  God  is  ever  still 
the  same, 

And  the  justice  of  Jehovah  shall  illumine  Pio's 
name. 

Nations  !  come  ye  with  your  legions  !  place  your 
sentinels  around  ! 


A  Retrospect.  67 

Halt  in  haste  !    but  tramp  not  proudly  on  the 

consecrated  ground  ! 
God  is  watching  o'er  His  temple — God  is  smiling 

on  our  Pope  ; 
And   the  Cross — the  Christian's  ensign — is  the 

Pontiff's  flag  of  hope. 


A   Retrospect. 


HTHROUGH  the  solemn  forest  wending, 
When  the  shades  of  eve  are  blending, 
With  the  hues  the  leaflets  pendent 
Fling  along  the  shady  way  ; 
Oft  we  gaze,  with  growing  sadness, 
Tow'rds  the  lovely  scenes  of  gladness 

That  we  left  behind  forever 
At  the  dawning  hour  of  day. 

II. 

Ah  !  'tis  thus  when  life  is  fading, 
When  the  gloom  of  care  is  shading 

Many  vistas  bright  and  pleasant 
Where  our  early  life  appears, 


68  A  Retrospect 

Oft  we  gaze  awhile  with  sorrow 
Which  no  moment's  pang  can  borrow 
From  our  darksome  life  at  present 
Back  to  scenes  of  vanish'd  years. 

III. 

Oft  has  hope  appear'd  awaking 

When  the  light  of  Knowledge  breaking 

Waken'd  Erin's  fallen  children 
From  their  dreams  of  want  and  woe. 
When  the  bard,  with  truth  and  boldness, 
Strove  to  chase  the  nation's  coldness 

With  his  burning  words  of  beauty, 
Like  his  brothers  'long  ago. 

IV. 

Ah  !  the  days  of  pleasant  seeming 
When  our  peasant  bands  were  streaming, 
Like  the  mountain-rills  unnumber'd, 
Down  the  hills,  along  the  vales  ; 
Rushing  round,  where,  proudly  soaring 
High  in  hope,  a  chief  was  pouring 

Words  of  warning,  words  of  promise, 
Hush'd  ere  long  by  Famine  wails  ! 


A  Retrospect.  69 

i 
V. 

Then  the  hopes  awhile  awoken, 
Ere  the  island's  heart  was  broken — 

Hopes  in  deeds  of  gallant  daring 
Wrought  by  men  of  Irish  mould, 
Then  the  dreadful  desolation 
Sweeping  o'er  our  trodden  nation — 

Famine  made  by  foreign  masters, 
With  the  hellish  craft  of  old  ! 


VI. 

Brothers  !  light  may  break  to-morrow 
O'er  our  gloomy  path  of  sorrow. 

Look  with  hope  across  the  ocean — 
Irish  courage  still  remains. 
O  !  "the  green"  is  proudly  waving 
O'er  the  exiles,  battles  braving, 

Hoping  still  they  yet  may  gather 
Nigh  their  foes  on  Irish  plains  ! 


The  Birth  of  the  Spring. 


i. 

T  TUSH  !   our  Mother  Earth  is  waking  ;   purple 

light  is  softly  breaking 

Through  the  passing  clouds  that  Winter  flee 
ing  bringeth  in  her  train. 
Smiling  Spring  !  awake  in  beauty  ;   pay  to  Time 

a  daughter's  duty ; 

Wield  thy  magic  wand  of  splendor  o'er  Crea 
tion's  broad  domain. 


II. 

Tempests  wild — the  Winter's  vassals — SAveeping 

round  the  proudest  castles, 
Shouting,  screaming  forth  their  war-cry,  struck 

the  hearts  of  men  with  fear ; 
Bent  the  forest-lords  before  them,  as  they  swept 

in  fury  o'er  them, 

As  they  sent  through  leafless   branches,  tri 
umph's  wild,  terrific  cheer. 


The  Birth  of  the  Spring.  ?\ 

III. 
Now   the   Winter's    reign    is    ended.      Queenly 

Spring  her  way  has  wended 
Down  the  hills  whose  brows  are  furrow'd  by 

the  rapid  streamlet's  waves, — 
Down  along  the  wrinkl'd  valleys  ;  through  the 

silent,  rural  alleys  ; 

O'er   the    garden's    swelling    bosoms,    to   the 
vanish'd  flow'rets'  graves. 

IV. 
She   will   pour   her   balm    around    her,    till   the 

deadly  chill  that  bound  her, 
Shall  in  misty  vapor  vanish  midst  the  fleeting 

Winter-clouds  ; 
She   will    guard    their    tender   childhood   in   the 

silent  vale  and  wild-wood  ; 
She  will  wrap  their  heads  at  morning  in  the 
glist'ning  dewy  shrouds ! 

V. 
O'er  the  bursting  blossoms  bending,  she  will  woo 

the  light  descending 

From  the  throne  of  dazzling  glory  where  the 
Sun  in  splendor  reigns  ; 


72  Dreams. 

Midst  her  peaceful  haunts  delaying,  through  her 

bright  dominions  straying, 
Light   of  day   will   fondly   linger,    bound   by 
Beauty's  golden  chains ! 


Dreams. 


i. 

T  TEED  them  not  —  the  fleeting  shadows  float 
ing  through  the  midnight  dreams, 

Like  the  scenes  that  seem  so  pleasant  'neath  the 
glassy-bosom'd  streams  : 

Shining  brightly,  jewel-studded,  'neath  the  sil 
ver-headed  spray, — 

Dreams — the  phantom-works  of  Fancy — fade  as 
night  before  the  day. 


II. 

Heed  them  not — the  shores  of  dreamland — trust 

no  treasure  to  the  ships 

Sailing  down  the  stream  of  Visions,  midst  the 
mighty  mind's  eclipse. 


A  Prison  Scene.  73 

Trust  no  syren  voice  that  rises  where  the  misty 

shadows  play. 
Dreams — the  phantom-works  of  Fancy — fade  as 

light  before  the  day  ! 


A  Prison  Scene. 


i. 

/~PHE  clouds  are  hast'ning  day's  decline, — their 

mighty  folds  are  spread 
Above  our  island's  giant  frame,  like  palls  that 

wrap  the  dead  ; 
And    gleams   of    light    fall    faintly   down,    and 

quickly  fade  away, 
Like  flushes  on  the  cheeks  of  youth  that  herald 

life's  decay. 

n. 

Within    a   gloomy   prison-cell  a  gallant   youth 

appears, — 
The  hope  of  Freedom's  bright  up-rise  illumed 

his  path  of  years. 

7 


74  -A  Prison  Scene. 

Young  Emmett  dared  to  love  our  isle,  and  love 

engendered  zeal  ; 
He  pledg'd  his  life  in  Erin's  cause  to  work  the 

Nation's  weal. 

III. 

Adown  through  grated  windows  dim  the  strug 
gling  daylight  falls, — 

The  gloom  is  spreading  round  the  cell — it  creeps 
along  the  walls  ; 

And  dark  the  fate  that  hovers  near,  yet  Robert's 
heart  is  warm, — 

He  hopes,  he  prays  that  Freedom's  barque  may 
weather  through  the  storm. 

IV. 

But  hark  !  the  iron  bolts  are  drawn — the  door  is 

opened  wide, 
And  soon  a  maiden,  meek  and  sad,  is  standing 

by  his  side. 
Adown  her  cheeks  the  pearly  tears  in  ceaseless 

streamlets  flow  ; — 
Her  heart  has  burst  beyond  its  bounds  beneath 

a  weight  of  woe  ! 


A  Prison  Scene.  75 

V. 
"Ah,  Sarah!  fondest,  dearest  one!  my  days  of 

joy  have  fled  ; 
The  breast  that  bears  a  double  love  will  soon  be 

with  the  dead  ; 
The  heart  that  beat  in  happy  times  for  you  and 

Erin's  isle, 
Will  soon  be  still,  and  feel  no  more   a  loving 

woman's  smile. 

VI. 
"But  O!   when  death  has  seal'd  my  eyes,  and 

quench'd  the  vital  flame, 
Remember  Robert  through  the  years,  and  guard 

the  martyr's  fame. 
And  when  amidst   the  happy  scenes  thy  lover 

lov'd  so  well, 
Think,    think    while    living   how    he    lov'd,    and 

loving  how  he  fell  ! 

VII. 

"  Aye,  fell  !    but   not  where  Erin's  flags   midst. 

gallant  columns  wave  ! 
A  martyr  in  my  country's  cause,  I  find  an  early 

grave. 


76  A  Prison  Scene. 

But  weep  not  !  sweeter  far  to  die  in  Freedom's 

blessed  cause, 
Than  live  a  slave  beneath  the  sword  that  dire 

Oppression  draws  ! 

VIII. 

"  If  cowards  slight  this  noble  cause,  and  mock 

my  brief  career, 
Subdue  thy  throbbing,  bursting  heart,  and  dry 

the  gushing  tear, 
And  raise  thy  gentle  voice  awhile   thy  lover's 

fame  to  save  ; — 
O !  bless  the  cause  of  Fatherland, — give  honor 

to  the  brave ! 

IX. 

"  Farewell !   my  life  is  dwindling  fast,  as  fades 

the  light  of  day  ; 
We'll  meet  again,  to  part  no  more,  in  regions  far 

away : — 
Above  the  skies,  beyond  the  stars,  where  tyrants 

ne'er  can  dwell — 
Fond  treasure  !  dearer  far  than  life  !  my  Sarah, 

fare  thee  well." 


A  Prison  Scene. 


77 


x. 

One  mighty  sigh  of  grief  up-swells,  as  swells  the 
troubled  tide  ; 

One  moment  more  of  deepest  woe,  and  Sarah 
leaves  his  side, 

But  through  the  lapse  of  stormy  years  no  foe- 
man  dare  assail 

The  name  of  Emmett  —  Freedom's  child  —  the 
pride  of  Innisfail ! 


Glendalough. 
i. 

/^LEN  of  the  Lakes  !    I  hail  thee  with  emo 
tion — 

Long-sighed-for  object  of  the  poet's  soul ! 
A  pilgrim-bard  presents  his  heart's  devotion 

Beside  the  hills  where  Avon's  waters  roll  ; 
And  sweetly  o'er  me  steals  a  happy  feeling 

That  thou  art  one  I  oft  beheld  before. 
The  hazy  curtains  seem  to  rise,  revealing 

The  long-sought  beauties  of  thy  raagic  shore  ! 


II. 

The    silv'ry   lakes !    what    solemn    awe    around 

them, 

Embosom'd  safely  midst  the  mountains  brown  ! 
The    heathy    cliffs,    the    waving    forests    bound 

them  ; 
Lugduff,  the  giant,  proudly  looketh  down. 


GlcndalojtgJi.  79 

The  Summer  sun  at  mid-day  softly  peepeth 
Adown  the  heather,  o'er  the  shadow'd  streams. 

The  gloomy  lake  awhile  in  silence  sleepeth, 
Then    wakes    and    smiles    amidst    the    sunny 
beams  ! 

III. 

So  grand,  so  solemn  seems  the  silence  reigning 

Across  the  glen  in  Summer's  sweetest  hour, 
That  Nature,  weari'd,  here  in  peace  remaining 

Awhile,  is  slave  to  Slumber's  witching  pow'r. 
She  scarcely  breathes  beside  the  streamlet  sigh 
ing, 

Beneath   the    pines   that   guard   the   sobbing 

lake, 
Till  Autumn  leaves,  beside  the  waters  lying, 

With  rustling  voices  bid  the  sleepers  wake  ! 

IV. 

A  home  was  here  for  sainted  hermit  glowing 
With  burning  love  and  wondrous  faith  divine  ! 

A  calm  retreat  for  youth  in  virtue  growing, 
Where    Nature's    God    could    have    a    fitting 
shrine. 


8o  Glendalough. 

And    so    the    lakes,   through    brightest    golden 
ages, 

Reflected  forms  of  Erin's  sainted  men, 
And  while  they  live  in  grand  historic  pages, 

St.  Kevin's  works  will  speak  amidst  the  glen  ! 

V. 

They  stand  majestic — ruined  churches  lowly, 

Whose  mould'ring  porches  creeping  ivy  climbs. 
The  prelates,  princes,  hermits  meek  and  holy, 

Rest   'neath   the   Cross   that    tells    of    better 

times. 

And    grandest   sight!    "the   pillar-tow'r"    that 
telleth 

Of  glories  gone  amidst  the  gloom  of  Time  ; 
For  though  no  more  the  abbey-bell  out-swelleth, 

The  voiceless  ruins  tell  their  tale  sublime  ! 

VI. 

Unnumber'd   legends  —  quaint,  and  sweet,  and 
tender, 

Are  still  preserv'd  amidst  the  gloomy  glen 
Of  Kevin's  love — the  peasant's  kind  defender, 

The  friend  and  father  dear  to  suff 'ring  men. 


Glcndalough.  8 1 

Ah,  happy  hours  !     Alas  !  too  soon  departed  ! 

When  seated  nigh  the  lake  with  friends  so  dear, 
I  heard  of  Kevin,  kind  and  tender-hearted, 

And  felt  I  had  some  kindred  spirits  near ! 

A   LEGEND   OF  ST.   KEVIN. 

In  the  days  when  good  Saint  Kevin — filled  with 

thoughts  of  God  and  heaven — 
Rais'd  those  lovely  churches  seven,  midst  the 

mountain-girdled  glen  ; 
When  the  hammers'  sounds  up-swelling,  echoed 

through  the  hermit's  dwelling, 
Sweetly  ringing,  gladly  telling  of  the  stalwart 

working-men. 

Strongest  son  of  honest  labor,  fit  to  wield  the 
sledge  or  sabre, 

Was  the  gallant  Phelim  then. 
Soon,  too  soon  he  left  the  sun-light,  ne'er  to  see 
the  earth  again  ! 

In  the   grave  where  shamrock   creepeth,  there 

the  gallant  worker  sleepeth — 
There    a   widow'd    woman   weepeth,    wailing 
wildly  o'er  the  dead  ; 


82  Glendalougli, 

But  at  eve  she  sinketh  slowly  on  her  couch  so 

lone  and  lowly, 
And  she  prays,  with  spirit  holy,  that,  as  joys 

of  earth  have  fled, 

She  may  rest  and  be  forgiven,  midst  the  golden 
halls  of  heaven, — 

She  may  see  the  field  outspread, 
Where  her  husband's  spirit  walketh  forth  from 
dwellings  of  the  dead ! 

Ere  the  dawn  her  death  is  knelling,  where  the 

Avon's  waves  were  swelling, 
And  two  infants'  cries  are  telling  of  the  births 

that  came  in  woe. 
Ah  !    the  twins  are   now  forsaken  !    ne'er   their 

mother  shall  awaken  ! 
To  the  Spirit-land  she's  taken,  and  her  babes 

are  left  below. 

But  the  loss  Saint  Kevin  heareth  —  by  the  couch 
the  Saint  appeareth  ; 

Soon  he  bears  them  o'er  the  snow, 
To  his  cell  beneath  the  mountains  where  the 
Avon's  waters  flow  ! 

Kevin  thinks  of  Him  who  feedeth  ev'ry  mortal 
thing  that  breatheth  ; 


Glendalough.  83 

Surely,  surely  now  he  needeth  aid  from  God 

for  orphans  young  ! 
So  hastes  along  the  heather,  through  the  snowy, 

stormy  weather, 
To  the  rocks  that  stand   together  near  the 

chapel's  holy  wall. 

O'er  the  rock  he  bendeth  lowly,  on  the  rock  he 
striketh  slowly, 

And  the  iron  mallets  fall, — 

Till   a   mighty   stony   basin   stands   beside    the 
mountains  tall ! 

Then  he  prays  that  at  the  dawning,  'neath  the 

forest's  frosted  awning, 
By   the    caves    so    grimly  yawning    o'er    the 

mountain-shadow'd  lake, 
Bounding  deer  may  nimbly  hasten  to  the  mighty 

rocky  basin, 
From  their  store  of  milk  to  place  in  some  for 

orphans  wanting  aid  ; 

That  the  fawns  may  gladly  spare  it,  that  the 
lovely  babes  may  share  it, 

Nor  the  Saint  be  still  afraid 

That  the  orphan  twins  might  wither  in  his  cell 
beside  the  glade. 


84  Glendalough. 

When    the   yellow   dawn    is   breaking,    lo !    the 

shining  deer  awaking, 
Soon    the    mountain -bed    forsaking,    nimbly 

bound  they  down  the  hill. 
With  a  sparkling  glance  of  pleasure,  pour  they 

forth  the  milky  treasure, 
Nor  with  miser's  stinted  measure,  till  the  rocky 

bowl  o'erflows, 

And  the  twins   grow  daily  stronger,   till   they 
need  the  milk  no  longer  : 

Such  their  Heavenly  Father's  will. 
This  the  lonely  Irish  legend  that  is  told  of  Kevin 
still  ! 

VII. 

Glen  of  the  Lakes  !  farewell !  perhaps  forever  ! 

Thy  countless  beauties  fade  in  mist  away  ; 
But  oh  !  can  shades  of  time  from  me  dissever 

The  sweet  remembrance  of  that  Summer  day? 
No  !  no  !  for  oft,  beside  the  prairies  dwelling, 

My  fancy  leads  me  o'er  the  ocean  waves, 
To  giant  hills,  where  Avon's  stream  is  swelling — 

To  peasants'  homes  and  hermits'  holy  caves  ! 


Rlegy  on  my  Sister. 
i. 

DREARY    task  !    to   send    my    thoughts 

along 

In  measur'd  language  while  my  soul  is  sad  ! 
To  try  to  sing  a  mourning,  requiem  song 
Of  her  who  ever  made  my  spirits  glad  ! 


II. 


Of  her  whose  smile  had  ever  on  me  beam'd, 
And  fill'd  my  heart,  enkindled  it  with  love. 

Of  her  who  ever  to  my  fancy  seem'd 

An  angel  sent  from  heaven's  court  above  ! 


III. 

How  can  my  heart  still  throb  within  my  breast, 
When  mighty  sorrow  dwells  within  its  core  ? 

The  voice  that  cheer'd  it  is,  alas !  at  rest  ! 
The  loving  eyes  will  never  move  it  more  ! 
8 


86  Elegy  on  my  Sister. 

IV. 
In  early  youth  she  seem'd  a  child  of  God  ; 

She  lov'd  the  temple's  sacred,  calm  retreat. 
Unknown,  unnotic'd  mid  the  crowd  she  trod, 

While  love  lent  swiftness  to  her  weari'd  feet. 

V. 
Her  love  !  the  love  that  mounts  unto  the  skies, 

That  finds  its  rest  when  death  removes  the  veil 
That  spreads  across  poor  sinful  mortals'  eyes, 

And  gives  an  answer  to  its  long  appeal. 

VI. 

Like  a  bright  flow'r  she  rose  before  my  eyes, 
And   twin'd    the    tendrils  round  my  youthful 

heart, 

And  as  she  grew  she  pointed  toward  the  skies, 
And  seem'd  to  say,  "Dear  brother  !  we  must 
part ! " 

VII. 
O  such  a  flow'r  !  so  lovely  and  so  chaste, 

Could  never  flourish  on  this  wicked  earth ! 
The  lily,  blooming  o'er  the  desert  waste, 

Will  wither  soon,  and  soon  again  take  birth.  . 


Elegy  on  my  Sister.  87 


VIII. 


And  she  is  gone  !  and  naught  of  her  remains 
Save  but  the  mem'ry  of  her  pious  deeds, 

As  dear  flow'rs  fragrance  on  the  desert  plains 
Still  hovers  'round  amidst  the  faded  weeds  ! 


IX. 


Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  lofty  tow'r 

Where  great  O'Connell's  mould'ring  body  lies, 

There  is  the  dust  of  that  beloved  flow'r — 
And  snapp'd,  alas  !  are  dear  fraternal  ties  ! 


X. 


The  cross  that  crowns  the  great,  majestic  pile 
Is  often  shadow'd  on  her  grassy  mound. 

The  roaring  tempest  seems  to  rest  awhile, 
And  pass  in  silence  o'er  the  sacred  ground ! 


XI. 


Peace  to  her  ashes  !  pray'rs  shall  oft  arise 
To  her  dear  soul,  although  it  reigns  above. 

Although  rejoicing  far  beyond  the  skies, 
Her  soul  is  happy  in  her  Saviour's  love. 


88  Commemoration  Day. 


XII. 


Yet  shall  we  pray  at  morning,  noon,  and  eve, 
And  beg  her  soul  may  soon  be  with  her  king. 

Resign'd  and  hopeful,  never  shall  we  grieve, 
But  feel  the  joy  that  hopes  of  heaven  bring  ! 


Commemoration  Day. 


i. 

voice    of  war   is   hushed,    the   struggle 
o'er! 

And  blessed  peace  is  smiling  once  again  ! 
The  hum  of  trade  is  heard  from  shore  to  shore, 
That    girds    our    Nation    midst    the    mighty 

main. 
The  peasant  pioneers,  on  hill  and  plain, 

O'erthrow  the  forest  giants,  plough  the  soil  ; 
And  mankind  hails  the  new  and  happy  reign 
Of  empire  gained  by  brave  and  honest  toil — 
A    prouder,    nobler    prize   than   victor's   gory 
spoil. 


Commemoration  Day.  89 

II. 

The  storm  has  ceased — the  clouds  have  passed 

away — 

The  fratricidal  feuds  are  buried  deep  ; 
With  equal  light  the  Summer  smiles  to-day 
O'er  silent  graves  where  friend   and   foeman 

sleep, 
Where  widows,  orphans,  oft  at  even'  weep  ! 

Away  with  grief,  and  sing  the  soldiers'  fame, 
And  on  their  tombs  the  flow'ry  garlands  heap  ; 
Nor    whisper    aught    of    censure,    scorn,    or 

blame 

Beside  the  silent  tomb  that  bears  a  "rebel's" 
name  ! 


III. 


In  peace  beside  each  other  sleep  the  brave, 
And    "dust   to   dust"   they   pass   to    Mother 
Land  ! 

The  earth  that  forms  the  soldier's  lowly  grave 
Is  native  soil,  for  which  they  drew  the  brand, 

And  fought  and  fell  amidst  a  brother-band. 
Then  place  the  laurel  over  ev'ry  tomb, 


90  Commemoration  Day, 

And  scatter  flow'rs  around  with  lavish  hand — 
No    soldier's    grave    shall    cast    a    shade    of 

gloom, 
But    like  a  garden-bed  with   flow'rs  of  May 

shall  bloom  ! 


IV. 

And  flock  around,  ye  men  of  foreign  climes. 

Who  found  a  refuge  'neath  the  Nation's  shield, 
And  paid,  with  grateful  hearts,  in  darkest  times, 

The  debt  you  owed,  upon  the  battle-field. 
In  noble  deeds  to  none  you  wish  to  yield, — 

Then  gather  'round  and  sing  the  soldiers'  praise 
Whose  love  for  freedom  with  their  life  was  seal'd  ; 

And  once  again  the  Starry  Banner  raise 

Above  the  gallant  dead  who  fell  in  other  days  ! 


Godless   Teachings. 


HPHE  children  growing  up  in  boyhood's  prime, 
Are  young  recruits  for  dang'rous  days  pre 
paring — 
For  struggles  ever  on  the  path  of  Time, 

Where  cares  are  great,  and  human  foes  are 

daring  ; 
Where  worldly  wiles  beset  the  toiler's  way, 

Like  weeds  around  the  rising  plant  entwining  ; 
And  foes  of  Truth  the  tempting  fruit  display — 
The  serpent's  craft   and   darkest   guile   com 
bining. 

II. 

The  weapon  strongest  in  the  ceaseless  strife — 
The    armor   guarding   hearts    that    know   no 
terror — 

That  carves  a  path  amidst  the  maze  of  life, 
And  guards  the  young  beside  the  gulf  of  error, 


92  Godless   Teachings. 

Is  Learning — subject  to  Religion's  sway — 

Like  purest  stream  that  flows  from  sparkling 

fountain, 

Constrain'd  within  its  proper  course  to  stay, 
When   rolling    down   the   high    and   furrow'd 
mountain. 

III. 

'Tis  vain  to  learn  the  gifts  of  Mother  Earth — 

To  scan  the  motions  made  by  starry  legions, 
And  hear  no  word  of  Him  who  gave  them  birth, 

And    mark'd    their    path    amidst    the   cloudy 

regions ! 

To    search   the   deepest    depths    of    Learning's 
mine, 

No  light  of  faith  your  feeble  steps  directing, 
Is  labor  lost !  the  mind's  unbroken  shrine 

Is  dark,  indeed,  Religion's  aid  neglecting. 

IV. 

My  country's  sons  !  when  bigot  tyrants  sought 
To  kill  the  faith  your  fathers  fondly  cherish'd  ; 

The  holy  priest,  the  man  who  science  taught, 
Beneath  the  sword  of  persecution  perish'd. 


Godless   Teachings.  93 

Yet  altars  rose  within  the  mountain  caves, 

And   Learning's   stream    was   guarded   midst 
afflictions, 

And  priest  and  teacher  sunk  to  honor'd  graves 
Amidst  a  people's  grateful  benedictions. 

V. 

To-day  of  Learning's  poison'd  draught  beware, 
That    comes   from   foes  —  our   country's   base 

deceivers  ! 

O  guard  the  lambs  ! — your  little  ones — with  care, 
The    poison'd    cup   would   make   them   unbe 
lievers  ! 

Your  Shepherds'  call  rings  o'er  the  sainted  land  ; 
Their  voice  of  warning  woke  our  faithful  Na 
tion. 
Avoid  the  gifts  that  fill  the  bigot's  hand, 

And  save  your  sons  from  "Godless   Educa 
tion." 


Doctor  Yore. 

(A  philanthropic  Priest,  beloved  by  the  citizens  of  Dublin.    He 
died  in  that  city  in  the  month  of  February,  1864.) 


I. 

"T^vEAR   stricken    Isle!    amidst    thy  countless 

woes 
One  gleam   of  hope  still  lights  the   path  of 

years  ; 
One  holy  love  amidst  thy  children  grows, 

Unchang'd    by    want,    unchill'd     by    earthly 

fears  ; 

Sweet  holy  hope,  and  love  for  him  who  cheers 
The   drooping  soul  with  gifts  that   God   be 
stows. 

Dear  priests  of  Erin  !    Heav'n's  anointed  peers  ! 
Though    Celtic    hearts   have  felt   unnumber'd 

throes, 

For  you  the  light  of  love  undimm'd  forever 
glows. 


Doctor  Yore.  95 

II. 

Alas  !  another  guiding  star  has  set ! 

Another  "Soggarth"  gone  forevermore, 
Whose  loss  our  island  cannot  soon  forget — 

Her  sainted  son — the  venerated  Yore. 
Let  pray'rs  arise  throughout  our  sea-girt  shore, 

Let  pious  joy  destroy  each  vain  regret  ; 
Angelic  bands  his  happy  spirit  bore 

To  realms  of  bliss,  where,  free  from  Adam's 
debt, 

That  faitHTul  Irish  priest  his  Lord  at   length 
has  met. 

III. 

The  people's  priest !    How  sad  they  seem  to-day, 
The  loving  poor,  who  watch'd  his  sunny  smile, 

And  felt  his  aid  upon  their  rugged  way, 

And  knew  that  heart  that  knew  not  human 
guile, 

That  throbb'd  for  God,  for  man,  for  native  Isle  ! 
Who  gave  the  sadden'd  blind  a  holy  ray,* 

*  The  allusions  are  to  Dr.  Yore's  connection  with  "St.  Mary's 
Asylum  for  Industrious  Blind,"  "Catholic  Society  for  Support  of 
Deaf  and  Dumb,"  "  St.  Vincent  de  Paul's  Orphanage,"  &c. 


96  Doctor  Yore. 

To  cheer  their  hearts,  dispel  each  worldly  wile 
That  sought  to  lead  their  tott'ring  steps  astray, 
And  make  the  child  of  God  the  pros'lytizer's 
prey! 

IV. 

Ah  !  silent  children  !  little  "mutes,"  who  ne'er 

Rejoic'd  a  mother's  heart  with  vocal  sound, 
Nor   lisp'd   to    Heav'n   a   child's   sweet,    simple 

pray'r, 

When  ev'ning  cast  its  heavy  shades  around — 
You  grieve  to-day,  for  fond  affection  bound 

Your  heart  to  him  who  banish'd  dark  despair, 
Through  whom  asylum,  blessed  by  Heav'n,  you 

found, 
Where,   led  by  truth,  and  free  from  worldly 

care, 

Your  youthful,  pious  souls  their  thanks  to  God 
declare. 

V. 

Ye  little  orphans  !  stay  the  tears  that  flow 
Adown  your  cheeks  as  once  they  fell  before  ; 

Your  second  father  leaves  you  here  below, 
But  lives  above,  his  earthly  labors  o'er. 


Dalkey.  97 

Strive,    strive    like   him    to   gain   that   priceless 

store 
Of  blessings  bright  which  midst  this  earth  oft 

grow ; 

Your  pastor's  field  a  glorious  harvest  bore. 
Then  youth  go  forth — with  hopeful  spirit  sow 
Seeds  like  that  godly  father's,  midst  this  world 
of  woe. 


Dalkey . 


TV  TEAR  where   the  ocean   rolls   its   boist'rous 

tide, 

Tow'rd  fair  Eblana  from  the  Eastern  side, — 
Near  where  Killiney  lifts  its  rugged  form 
High   tow'rd    the   skies,    nor    fears    the   wintry 

storm  : 

Near  where  the  billows  loudly,  madly  roar, 
When  sweeping  swiftly  past  "the  Colamore," 
The  ancient  town  of  lovely  Dalkey  stands — 
The  fairest  spot  amidst  the  Irish  lands. 


98  Dalkey. 

In  ancient  times,  while  Erin  yet  was  free, 
Ere  Saxon  despots  cross'd  the  foaming  sea, — 
When  Irish  monarchs  held  the  Irish  throne, 
And  plac'd  their  hopes  in  Irish  hands  alone, 
Here  mighty  chiefs,  midst  splendor,  pass'd  their 

days, 

And  lords  and  peasants  heard  the  bardic  lays 
Which  told  of  wars  between  some  Danish  band 
And  hardy  clansmen  of  our  Father-land. 


Oft  did  the  walls  with  boist'rous  laughter  sound 
That  now  in  ruins  seem  to  seek  the  ground. 
Oft  on  Killiney  did  the  signals  burn 
That  told  the  clansmen  of  the  chief's  return. 
Oft  through  old  Dalkey  march'd  a  gallant  band, 
The  pride  and  glory  of  our  Celtic  land  ; 
And  tow'rd  his  home  the  stalwart  peasant  trod, 
With  cheerful    mien  —  in    peace  with   man   and 
God. 

Those  days  have  pass'd  on  Time's  deceitful  wing  ; 
No  more  these  walls  with  joyous  laughter  ring  ; 
No  more  the  strains  of  golden  harps  swell  high, 
To  tell  that  chiefs  of  noble  blood  are  nigh. 


Dalkey.  99 

Yet  Dalkey  still  retains  its  ancient  fame, 
And  lovely  scenes  are  blended  with  its  namr>. 
For  though  the  tyrant  since  has  robb'd  our  Ian  Is, 
And  on  our  treasures  laid  destructive  hands — 
Though  times  of  want  and  woe  have  pass'd  since 

then, 

Though  dead,  long  ago,  are  the  warrior-nun, 
Though  long  in  ruins  have  those  castles  stood — 
Still,  still  they  stand  her  for  the  country'?  good, 
And  Nature  dwells  here  as  in  days  of  yore, 
And  spreads  her  charms  around  the  rocky  shore. 

i 

Here  poets  still  may  revel  in  delight, 
As  'round  they  gaze  on  ev'ry  charming  sight, 
Or  wandering  down  by  rugged  "  Colamore," 
They  see  the  billows  dash  against  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  ocean  roaring  far  away, 
Where  mighty  vessels  leap  amidst  the  spray. 

Here  Essex  landed  with  his  Saxon  band, 
When  first  he  hastcn'd  to  enslave  our  land. 
And  English  war-ships  rode  on  yonder  tide, 
Where   naught  but   small   boats   on  the   waters 
glide. 


100  Dalkey. 

Here  English  soldiers  landed  warlike  store, 
With  many  an  oath  and  many  a  brutal  roar, 
And  dragg'd  the  cannon  up  the  rugged  strand 
To  slay  the  men  of  this  old  Irish  land. 

See  yonder  mansion  stretching  toward  the  sea, 
Remote  and  peaceful  and  from  danger  free. 
No  noise  is  heard  except  the  roaring  waves, 
And  light  wind  sighing  through  the  rocky  caves, 
No  shout  arises  here  the  live-long  day, 
Save  when  the  sea-gull  sweeps  upon  his  prey. 

Now  on  the  beach  the  loaded  fish-boat  lies, 
While  hardy  fishers  soon  divide  the  prize. 
Or  at  the  mid-day — free  from  grief  or  pain, 
The  old  men  tell  of  perils  on  the  main, 
And  speak  of  fights  they  had  in  other  years 
With  murd'rous  crews  of  flying  privateers  ; 
Or  tell  of  smugglers  sailing  o'er  the  main, 
With  costly  goods  from  France  or  lovely  Spain 
And  others  listen,  though  they  don't  forget 
To  mend  the  small  sails  or  the  broken  net : — 
Such  sights  are  seen  at  rugged  Colamore, 
Where  mighty  billows  leap  against  the  shore. 


Dalkey.  IO1 

On  Summer-days  I've  sat  on  yonder  hill, — 
The  winds  at  rest  and  Nature  calm  and  still. 
Upon  the  heath  I've  read  of  Rome  and  Greece, 
The  fate  of  nations  and  the  sweets  of  peace. 
Oft  I  have  thought  how  sweet  'twould  be  for 

those 
Long    years    engag'd    against    their    country's 

foes, 

Tired  of  the  battle  and  the  long  campaign, 
Here  to  retire  and  dwell  in  yonder  plain. 


Cross  "Dalkey-Hill,"  or  on  its  summit  stand, 
And  gaze  afar  upon  the  verdant  land, — 
Toward  where  "The  Scalp"  and  Wicklow  Hills 

arise, 
Where   "Sweet   Ovoca"  'tween   the    mountains 

lies, 
And   where   "  the    Dargle "  sweeps   amidst    the 

hills, 

Where  rocks  resound  with  music  of  the  rills. 
And  nearer  still,  Shangana's  plain  is  seen, 
With  pleasant  cots,  and  waving  meadows  green. 
There  snowy  sheep  and  lowing  cattle  graze — 
There  sit  the  shepherds  in  the  Summer-days. 


102  Dal  key. 

Let  others  boast  of  homes  beyond  the  main, 
In  sunny  France,  in  orange-bearing  Spain  ; 
Where  Alps  are  clad  in  everlasting  snow  ; 
Where  lakes  abound,  where  sunny  waters  flow, 
Or   where    the    rivers    sweep    through    orange- 
groves  ; 
Where    Rhone's   wild   water   by   the    mountain 

roves ; 

Where  Switzer-peasants  tend  the  fleecy  flocks, 
And  chase  the  chamois  o'er  the  shelving  rocks  ; 
Or  yet  again  where  cascades  cast  the  spray 
Midst  rosy  banks,  and  leap  about  all  day. 
Yes  !  even  talk  of  homes  along  the  Rhine, 
And  lovely  walks  amidst  the  trellis'd  vine. 
All,  all  would  vanish  from  my  glowing  mind, 
And    leave    one    thought  —  one    longing   wish 

behind — 

To  live,  to  die  amidst  each  lovely  scene 
That  decks  Old  Dalkey  like  a  bridal-queen  ! 


Our   University. 

Written  on  the  occasion  of  laying  the  corner-stone  of  tht 
Catholic  University  of  Ireland,  in  1862. 


T3  EJOICE,  ye  Celts !    whate'er  your  lot  may 

be, 

If  still  the  sparks  of  faith  your  bosoms  fire, 
If  still  ye  long  for  homes  and  altars  free, 

And  seek  for  hope  to   guide  each  dear  de 
sire  ; 
Rejoice  !  for  lo,  our  burning  feuds  expire 

When     Erin's     prelates    wake    "the     sainted 

land." 
And    though    each    year    some    stars    of    hope 

retire, 
And    sorrows    break,    like   waves    along    the 

strand — 

Still,  still  our  darling  isle  the  tempests  will 
withstand  ! 


IO4  Our  University. 

II. 

Oh,    gladsome    sight !    oh,    proudest,   brightest 

day 
That    dawn'd    for    years    upon    our    slighted 

isle ! 
When    stalwart    thousands    march'd    in    strong 

array, 

'Neath  Irish  skies  in  Summer's  sunny  smile, 
To  show  their  front  against  their  ruler's  guile, 

To  tell  the  world  that  Ireland's  faithful  race, 
Though  poor,  dejected,  wakes  to  life  awhile, 
Resolv'd  to  give  to  learning  hallow'd  place — 
A  home  where   Faith  shall  reign  which  man 
can  ne'er  deface  ! 


III. 

Methought,  as  onward  roll'd  the  human  stream  : 
The     marshall'd     force     of    thirty    thousand 
men — 

That  sight  of  wonder  was  a  happy  dream 
Of  olden  times  by  wooded  hill  and  glen. 

To  hear  the  tramp,  the  stirring  strains,  as  when 
The  Celtic  clans  as  victors  left  the  field, 


Ouj^.  University.  105 

Would  move  the  faintest  heart  to  hope  again 
That  men  who  long  in  vain  for  rights  appeal'd, 
And  now  behold  their  strength,  will  ne'er  to 
tyrants  yield. 

IV. 

Ah  !  long  ago  our  island's  wondrous  fame 

As   Learning's   home  was  midst  the  nations 

spread, 
Till^urope,  startled,  echo'd  Erin's  name, 

And  thirsting  students  towards  her  temples 

sped, 

Where  learned  Saints  the  lamp  of  science  fed. 
Ah  !  then  no  bigot  laws  our  country  bound, 
But  Learning,  Truth,  one  golden  glory  shed  ; 
"The  Isle  of  Scholars"  then  was  holy  ground, 
Where  Science  honor'd  God,  and  Arts  a  refuge 
found  ! 

V. 

Alas !  in  evil  hour  the  tyrants  came, 

And  sorrows  brooded  o'er  our  ruin'd  state ; 

The  English  edicts  smother'd  Learning's  flame  : 
The  vilest  serfdom  seem'd  our  fathers'  fate  ; 


106  Onr  University. 

But  soon,  despite  the  tyrants'  hellish  hate, 
They  nourish'd  Knowledge  in  their  mountain- 
caves, 
Where  priests  and  teachers  midst  their  people 

sate — 
An    out-law'd    band,    who    sunk    to    honor'd 

graves, 

Or  wept  in   exile  homes  beyond  the  distant 
waves. 

VI. 

Oh,  joyous  thought  !  our  fathers'  faith  survives, 
•  And  love  for  learning  stirs  our  people  still. 
And  struggling  Erin — hopeful — boldly  strives 

To  make  her  rulers  own  a  Nation's  will. 
May  Faith  and  Science  once  again  fulfil 

Their  happy  task  in  Irish  classic  halls  ; 
May  Erin's  cause  her  future  students  thrill, 

Till  youth  shall  stand  where  Faith  or  country 
calls, 

And  strive  to  break  each  bond  that  weakens 
or  enthralls  ! 


Ode  on  Washington  s  Birth-Day, 

1873. 

Delivered  at  the  Inauguration  of  the  Catholic  Hall, 
Leavenwortk,   Kansas. 


I. 

"t  \  J"E  ope  the  gates  of  Knowledge, 

We  hail  the  eager  throng 
That  surges  onward  toward  the  shrine 

Of  orat'ry  and  song. 
We  bless  the  star  of  Liberty 

That  sheds  a  light  around, 
And  we  pray,  on  this  day, 

That  no  despot  may  be  found 
To  enslave  the  soul,  debase  the  mind  !— 

That  no  despot  may  be  found. 

II. 
O,  noble  chief!  whose  mem'ry 

A  grateful  race  recalls, — 
Whose  name  should  blaze  in  starry  light 

Around  our  humble  walls  ! 


io8         Ode  on   Washington  s  Birth-Day. 

Thy  hand,  that  struck  Oppression  down, 
The  wounds  of  faction  bound. 

So  we  pray,  on  this  day, 

That  no  despot  may  be  found 

To  enslave  the  soul,  debase  the  mind  ! — 
That  no  despot  may  be  found. 

III. 

No  fitter  day  to  open 

The  doors  of  Learning's  hall. 
No  better  time  to  raise  the  heart, 

And  olden  thoughts  recall, — 
Than  now,  when  o'er  the  continent 

Our  father's  praises  sound. 
And  we  pray,  on  this  day, 

That  no  despot  may  be  found 
To  enslave  the  soul,  debase  the  mind  ! — 

That  no  despot  may  be  found. 

IV. 

Our  mighty  country's  Father 

No  bigot  feeling  knew. 
He  struck  "for  homes  and  altars  free" — 

He  left  these  gifts  for  you. 


Ode  on   Washington  s  Birth-Day.         109 

So  here,  whate'er  our  faith  may  be, 

His  praises  we  shall  sound, 
As  we  pray,  on  this  day, 

That  no  despot  may  be  found 
To  enslave  the  soul,  debase  the  mind  ! — 

That  no  despot  may  be  found. 

*  V. 

O  !  blessed  light  of  Freedom  ! 

The  suff'rer  looks  to  thee, 
And  seeks  thee  from  his  distant  home 

Beyond  the  stormy  sea. 
And  here,  to-night,  with  grateful  hearts, 

Thy  champion's  praises  sound, 
As  we  pray,  on  this  day, 

That  no  despot  may  be  found 
To  enslave  the  soul,  debase  the  mind  ! — 

That  no  despot  may  be  found. 


Winter  in   Town. 


i. 

A  H  !  the  day  is  dull  and  dreary — 

Dreary  as  the  night  ; 
For  the  sky  above  is  clouded, 
And  the  glorious  sun  is  shrouded, 
And  the  heart  grows  sad  and  weary, 

Longing  for  the  light. 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  sad  and  weary  ! 
Dreary  as  the  night. 

II. 

Dismal  show'rs  for  ever  patter 

On  the  walks  below, 
And  they  strike  my  windows  madly, 
And  they  trickle  down  them  sadly, 
And,  with  wildest  din  and  clatter, 

Mimic  rivers  flow. 
Thus  my  spirits,  like  the  streamlets, 

Gloomy  every  flow  ! 


Prologue.  Ill 

III. 

In  my  lofty  study  sitting, 

High  above  the  town, 
Gaze  I,  through  the  falling  showers, 
To  the  home  amidst  the  bowers, 
Where  the  sunny  beams  seem  flitting 

Ever  up  and  down. 
Ah  !  the  beams  are  on  the  hill-side 

Flitting  up  and  down. 


P  ro  logue. 


Spok:n  on  St.  Patricks  Day,  at  au  Entertainment  given  by 
the  "Irish-American  Dramatic  Club." 


T  TAIL  to  the  exiles  far  from  Erin's  shore  ! 

Who  love  the  land  their  fathers  lov'd  of  yore; 
Who  love  the  isle,  that  rests  amidst  the  waves, 
Where  daisies  grow  above  their  mothers'  graves. 
Hail  to  them  all !     To-day  their  mem'ry  roams 
In  fancy  back  to  Ireland's  happy  homes  ; 


112  Prologue. 

To  hills  whose  breasts  are  clad  in  garb  of  green, 
Where   yellow   moss   with   shamrock -leaves   is 

seen, — 

Where  laughing  children,  aged  men  to-day, 
Bend  lowly  down,  and  bending  seem  to  pray, — 
While  seeking  midst  the  grass  a  gem  as  fair 
To  Irish  eyes  as  em'ralds  "rich  and  rare." 
Ah  !  many  a  time  we've  heard  our  fathers  tell 
Of  mossy  banks  beside  a  bubbling  well, 
Where  greenest  shamrock  met  their  eager  gaze 
On  "Patrick's  morning"  in  their  boyhood's  days, 
And   how  they  pluck'd  and   plac'd  it   on   their 

breast, 

To  show  they  loved  the  faith  of  Patrick  best, — 
The  faith  that  flourished  midst  the  nation's  woes, 
That,   trampled    down,  like  shamrock,   proudly 

rose. 

Hail  to  the  exiles  !  in  our  festive  hall 
We  meet,  the  young,  the  old — Hibernians  all ! 
"Sons  of  Hibernians" — such  the  name  we  bear, 
For  Irish  parents  claim  us  as  their  care. 
We  stand  before  you,  eager  to  essay 
To  cheer  your  hearts  on  Patrick's  happy  day, 
To  wake  the  merry  laugh  and  happy  smile 
In  exil'd  sons  of  Erin's  suff'ring  isle. 


Prologue.  113 

Upon  this  stage  Hibernians'  sons  will  come 
And  sound  the  shrilly  fife  and  rolling  drum. 
And  sing  the  songs  of  Erin — "Music's  queen  !" 
And  act  a  part  in  drama's  moving  scene. 
Great  \%  our  wish,  our  effort  to  succeed, — 
If  yet  we  fail,  O  "take  the  will  for  deed." 
The  curtain  moves  !    I  boldly  now  announce,  sir, 
The  farce  of  "Box  and  Cox  and  Mrs.  Bouncer." 
And  though  no  smile  light  up  your  Celtic  faces, 
When  "Pierce  O'Hara"  talks  of  Irish  races  ; 
Yet  when  old  "Bouncer"  speaks  to  "Box,"  the 

printer, 

If  ev'ry  heart  is  coloVas  ice  of  Winter, 
You  must  dissolve,  and  laugh,  and  grow  right 

merry, 

And  feel  as  frisky  as  young  kids  in  Kerry. 
I'll  merely  add  this  adage  to  our  greeting — 
"  The  pudding's  proof  is  always  in  the  eating." 


SONGS. 


The   Wicklow   Vales. 

AIR — "Limerick  is  Beautiful." 


H  !  brightly  beams  the  Summer  sun 

On  fair  lands  far  away ; 
A  garb  of  green  the  valleys  wear, 

Where  silv'ry  streamlets  stray. 
But  boyhood's  home  I'll  ne'er  forget, 

Though  dark  my  fate  may  be — 
Where'er  I  roam,  my  Irish  home, 

The  Wicklow  Vales  for  me. 

Where'er  I  roam,  my  Irish  home, 

The  Wicklow  Vales  for  me. 


There's  music  in  the  leafy  woods, 
And  mid  the  rocky  hills — 

The  rolling  tones  that  follow  fast 
The  leaping,  rippling  rills. 


Il8  The  Wick  low  Vales. 

And  sunshine  dances  round  our  door 
At  mid-day,  wild  with  glee, 

And  proudly  stand  the  mountains  grand  ! 
The  Wicklow  Vales  for  me. 

And  proudly  stand  the  mountains  grand  ! 
The  Wicklow  Vales  for  me. 

Amidst  those  hills  the  steel  was  heard, 

And  music's  martial  strain, 
When  patriots  sought  to  make  our  isle 

"A  nation  once  again." 
The  outlaw  bold,  like  eagle  wild, 

On  mountain's  brow  was  free — 
Oh  !  Freedom's  home  !  where'er  I  roam, 

The  Wicklow  hills  for  me. 
Oh  !  Freedom's  home  !  where'er  I  roam, 

The  Wicklow  hills  for  me. 

Ah  !  sorrows  fall  like  mountains'  shades 
O'er  brightest  scenes  of  earth, 

Yet  hope  remains  amid  these  plains 
To  hail  the  morrow's  birth. 

And  gladly  glides  the  Winter's  night, 
Mid  scenes  of  mirth  and  glee — 


The   Wicklow   Vales.  119 

Where'er  I  roam,  my  mountain  home, 

The  Wicklow  Vales  for  me. 
Where'er  I  roam,  my  mountain  home, 

The  Wicklow  Vales  for  me. 


Let  others  boast  of  happy  homes 

In  fair  lands  far  away, 
My  love  for  thee  shall  never  fade, 

Where'er  my  footsteps  stray. 
Dear  Wicklow  !     Home  of  loving  hearts, 

My  mountain  nurse,  Machree  ! 
No  vales  can  e'er  with  thine  compare, 

The  Wicklow  Vales  for  me. 
No  vales  can  e'er  with  thine  compare, 

The  Wicklow  Vales  for  me. 


The  Dance. 

AIR—  ' '  Bitty  0  'Rourke. " 


*T^HE  Summer  sun  is  laughing  down, 
And  o'er  the  heather  glancing — 
We'll  haste  away  ere  close  of  day 

To  join  the  peasants  dancing 
Beneath  the  ivy-clothed  trees 

That  guard  the  farmer's  dwelling, 
And  softly  shake  their  leafy  bells, 

While  music's  strains  are  swelling — 
We'll  haste  away,  we'll  haste  away, 

Along  the  scented  heather  ; 
We'll  join  the  merry  peasant  band, 

And  "trip  the  sod"  together. 


From  silent  glen,  from  mossy  moor, 

From  cabin  lone  and  dreary, 
They  come — \fatfriezed  and  hooded  band, 

With  spirits  never  weary. 


The  Dance.  121 

t 

With  hearts  so  light  that  sorrows  ne'er 

Can  break  their  sense  of  pleasure — 
The  Irish  heart  that  laughs  at  care 

Is  bless'd  with  brightest  treasure. 
We'll  haste  away,  we'll  haste  away, 

Along  the  scented  heather  ; 
We'll  join  the  merry  peasant  band, 

And  "trip  the  sod"  together. 

The  stars  will  peep  amidst  the  trees, 

Their  light  with  moonbeams  blended, 
Before  the  music  dies  away, 

Before  the  dance  is  ended. 
And  joke  and  laughter,  wild  and  free, 

Ring  round  the  farmer's  dwelling, 
And  lithesome  limbs  keep  measur'd  time 

Where  Irish  airs  are  swelling. 
We'll  haste  away,  we'll  haste  away, 

Along  the  scented  heather  ; 
We'll  join  the  merry  peasant-band, 

And  "trip  the  sod"  together. 

As  long  as  happy  Irish  hearts 

Are  throbbing  through  the  Nation — 
11 


122  My  Lovely  Isle,  Adieu. 

As  long  as  Irish  exiled  sons 

Are  found  on  God's  creation — 
As  long  as  music's  thrilling  strains 

Can  wake  a  sweet  emotion, 
We'll  save  the  custom  of  our  sires 

At  home  and  o'er  the  ocean. 
We'll  haste  away,  we'll  haste  away, 

Along  the  scented  heather  ; 
We'll  join  the  merry  peasant-band, 

And  "trip  the  sod"  together. 


My  Lovely  Isle,  Adieu  ! 

AIR — "  Shule  Aroon" 


I. 
A  WAY  from  Erin's  lovely  shore 

My  weary  heart  with  grief  is  sore,- 
Alas  !  I'll  never  see  thee  more  ! 

My  lovely  isle,  adieu  ! 
Far,  far,  far  from  thee 

• 

We  sail  away  on  the  stormy  sea. 
Ah  !  could  I  sleep  on  the  rolling  deep, 
And  cease  to  dream  of  you  ! 


t 

My  Lovely  Isle,  Adieu.  123 


II. 

Ah  !  oft  in  happy  times  I've  stray'd 
Thro'  meadows  green  and  forests'  shade 
From  father's  cot  beside  the  glade, — 

But  now,  old  home,  adieu  ! 
Far,  far,  far  from  thee 
We  sail  away  on  the  stormy  sea. 
Ah !  could  I  sleep  on  the  rolling  deep, 

And  cease  to  dream  of  you  ! 

III. 

They  say  the  land  is  rich  to-day 
Where  wild  Missouri's  waters  stray 
Midst  prairies  boundless,  far  away. 

Ah  !  fairer  land,  adieu  ! 
Far,  far,  far  from  thee 
We  sail  away  on  the  stormy  sea. 
Ah  !  could  I  sleep  on  the  rolling  deep, 

And  cease  to  dream  of  you  ! 


IV. 

No  riches  gain'd  on  foreign  shore 
Can  e'er  my  youthful  joys  restore. 


124  Gazing  Westward. 

Can  steal  my  heart  from  thee,  asthore  ! 

My  lovely  isle,  adieu  ! 
Far,  far,  far  from  thee 
We  sail  away  on  the  stormy  sea. 
Ah  !  could  I  sleep  on  the  rolling  deep, 

And  cease  to  dream  of  you  ! 


Gazing  Westward. 


\  \  7"HEN  the  shades  of  eve  are  blending 
Where  the  fleecy  clouds  have  roll'd  ; 
When  the  ruddy  sun  descending 

Tips  the  mountain-tops  with  gold  ; 
When  the  weary  soul  is  sinking, 

Like  the  setting  sun,  to  rest, — 
Then  of  olden  times  I'm  thinking, 

Gazing  fondly  tow'rd  the  West ! 

Far  beyond  the  forests  olden, 

Where  the  shadows  creep  to-night  ; 

Far  beyond  the  mountains  golden, 
Gilt  with  day's  declining  light  ; 


Gazing    West^vard.  125 

Far  beyond  the  billows  foaming, 
O'er  the  ocean's  troubled  breast, 

Tow'rd  the  past  my  heart  is  roaming, 
Gazing  fondly  tow'rd  the  West ! 

Yet  I  gaze,  though  tears  are  gushing, 

Though  my  throbbing  heart  is  sore  ; 
*Yet  I  stand,  though  onward  rushing 

Roll  the  scenes  I'll  see  no  more. 
Shadows  gather  gloom  around  me  ; 

Happy  sounds  disturb  my  rest, 
Rudely  breaking  bonds  that  bound  me, 

Gazing  fondly  tow'rd  the  West. 

Yet  in  Fancy's  pow'r  I  wander, 

By  the  olden  paths  at  eve  ; 
O'er  the  vanish'd  years  I  ponder  ; 

For  the  stricken  Isle  I  grieve. 
Yet  I  watch  for  day's  awaking — 

Though  the  sun  has  sunk  to  rest — 
For  the  light  of  Freedom  breaking 

O'er  the  dim  and  distant  West  ! 


0,  Lovely  Land ! 


r^\  LOVELY  land  !  where'er  I  roam, 

I  oft  will  think  of  thee  ! 
Where'er  I  fix  my  future  home, 

Whate'er  my  lot  may  be. 
If  midst  the  shades  of  forest  trees 

Beneath  a  foreign  sky, 
My  thoughts  shall  speed  across  the  seas 

To  where  thy  valleys  lie. 


Could  I  forget  to  sing  thy  praise 

Thou  beautiful  and  fair  ? 
Could  I  forget  my  early  days, 

Amidst  my  worldly  care, 
That  I  have  spent  upon  thy  breast — 

Thy  lovely  breast  of  green, 
Thou  beauteous  daughter  in  the  West — 

Atlantic's  peerless  queen  ? 


0,  Lovely  Land!  127 

All  beautiful  but  sad  art  thou — 

A  slave  amidst  the  free  ! 
Enchain'd  and  lone  thou  sittest  now, 

Kncircl'd  by  the  sea. 
Like  widow  fair  in  gloomy  weeds, 

Thou  smilest  mid  thy  tears — 
Thou  hardy  nurse  of  gallant  deeds 

In  long  departed  years  ! 

Thy  sons  oft  sought  to  break  thy  chain, 

To  raise  thy  drooping  head, 
Bit  still  a  slave  thou  dost  remain, 

And  hope  from  thee  has  fled. 
Yet  soon,  perhaps,  thou  wilt  arise, 

Like  one  from  out  the  tomb, 
Like  sun-light  bursting  from  the  skies, 

Chasing  the  Nation's  gloom  ! 


Hunting  Song. 

AIR—  "Shilly  Shally." 


HPRUMPETS  sounding,  horses  bounding, 

O,  how  happy  seems  the  day  ! 
When  we  sally  from  the  valley, 

Chasing  Reynard  far  away. 
Far  away,  while  through  the  mountains 

Ring  the  notes  we  love  to  hear, — 
Music  sweet  to  happy  hunters, 

Made  by  hounds  in  wild  career  ! 


Downward  dashing  streams  are  flashing — 

Scarlet  streams  of  hunters  bold  ! 
Swiftly  going  where  are  flowing 

Mountain  torrents  uncontroll'd. 
Loose  the  reins  and  spur  the  charger, — 

Gallant  steed  we've  won  our  way  ! 
Rush  again  through  glen  and  meadow  ; 

Boldly  hold  the  lead  to-day. 


Hunting  Song.  129 

Still  careering,  nothing  fearing, 

Now  we're  rushing  through  the  vale — 
Glen  of  glory  !  fam'd  in  story  ! 

Lovely  glen  of  wild  Imael  ! 
Up  the  rugged,  rocky  mountains, 

Where  the  "mountain-fox"  is  seen. 
O  !  I  love  your  brow  of  boldness, 

Tow'ring  heights  of  old  Kaigeen  ! 

Naught  shall  ever  rudely  sever 

Happy  thoughts  of  long  ago, 
Spent  in  racing,  wildly  chasing, 

Where  "the  Greece"  and  "Slaney"  flow. 
Hark  !  again  the  trump  is  sounding  ! 

See  !  the  dogs  are  rushing  round. 
Huntsman's  whoop — the  wild  "you-youp," 

Tells  that  Reynard's  "run  to  ground." 


The  Friends  whom  I  Loved 
Long  Ago. 

O  <-> 

AIR—  ' '  The  Beautiful  Maid  of  my  Soul. " 


A  WAY  midst  our  Irish  hills, 

My  heart  and  my  thoughts  are  to-day, 
By  the  banks  of  the  streamlets  that  dance 

To  the  Emerald  meadows  away. 
But  darkness  comes  down  through  the  glen  ; 

The  rivers,  too,  wail  as  they  flow, 
For  I  miss  those  that  brightened  the  scene — 
The  friends  whom  I  lov'd  long  ago. 

Beside  the  old  castle  walls, 

Where  ivy  is  green  as  of  old, 
Have  I  sat  in  the  shade  in  the  eve, 

When  the  heavens  their  banners  unroll'd, 
And  listen'd  to  tales  of  the  past, — 

Of  Erin's  dark  ages  of  woe  ; 
Ah  !  'twas  then  that  I  valu'd  them  most — 

The  friends  whom  I  lov'd  loner  aero. 


The  Green  Flag.  131 

Away  midst  the  forests'  wilds, 

Where  roll  the  Missouri's  dark  waves, 
They  have  sought  for  a  refuge — a  home — 

For  this  land  is  an  island  of  slaves  ! 
But  ever  they  hope,  midst  the  gloom, 

To  strike  yet  for  Erin  a  blow  ; 
Ah  !  soon  may  we  see  them  again — 

The  friends  whom  we  lov'd  long  ago  ! 


The  Green  Flag. 

AIR—"  Well  Rally  round  the  Flag" 


A  H  !  our  flag  is  in  the  dust  now — 
The  flag  our  fathers  bore, 

Fighting  to  free  our  Mother  Ireland  ! 
And  the  Saxons  tramp  it  down  in 
The  gallant  Nation's  gore, 

Fighting  to  free  our  Mother  Ireland  ! 
Why  do  we  loiter  while  hope  remains  ? 
Strike  for  her  freedom  !  shatter  her  chains  ! 
O  !  we'll  rush  to  raise  that  flag,  boys  ! 
The  flag  our  fathers  bore, 

Fighting  to  free  our  Mother  Ireland  ' 


132  The  Green  Flag. 

Ah  !  that  flag  was  rais'd  awhile 
On  the  heathy  mountains  high, 

Calling  for  aid  for  Mother  Ireland  ! 
And  though  tyrants  tore  it  down, 
We  will  lift  it  up  or  die, 

Fighting  to  free  our  Mother  Ireland  ! 
Swear  to  be  faithful !  pledge  heart  and  hand  ! 
Flock  to  her  standard  !  rescue  our  land  ! 
O  !  we'll  rush  to  raise  that  flag,  boys  ! 
The  flag  our  fathers  bore, 

Fighting  to  free  our  Mother  Ireland  ! 

By  the  wrongs  of  many  years, 
By  the  tombs  of  martyred  men, 

Fighting  to  free  our  Mother  Ireland  ! 
By  the  shroudless  paupers'  graves, 
We  now  swear  to  strike  again, 

Fighting  to  free  our  Mother  Ireland  ! 
Fling  out  the  Green  flag — wide  let  it  wave  ; 
Rush  to  that  standard,  sons  of  the  brave ! 
O  !  we'll  bear  that  flag  afar,  boys  ! 
Through  Erin's  cruel  foes, 

Fighting  to  free  our  Mother  Ireland  ! 


"  God  Save  Old  Ireland" 

AIR — "The  Admiral" 


T  TOW    fondly    now,    how    proudly    now,    the 
exiles'  bosoms  swell 

With  thoughts  of  scenes  of  loveliness   by  lake 
and  hill  and  dell  : 

With   mem'ries  of  the  sunny  hours  that  faded 
soon  away, 

Like  golden  light  that  gleams  awhile  at  dawn 
ing  hour  of  day ! 

And  tear-drops  glisten  in  the  eyes  of  gallant 
men  and  true, — 

The  forest-oak,  like  fragile  flow'r,  oft  bears  the 
morning  dew. 

O  native   Isle  !    the  heart  distills  such  tribute- 
tears  for  thee  ! 

God  save   Old   Ireland! — struggling  Ireland  — 
Ireland  o'er  the  sea  ! 

God   save   Old   Ireland! — struggling  Ireland  — 
Ireland  o'er  the  sea  ! 
12 


134  "  God  Save  Old  Ireland" 

How  bravely  now,  how  nobly  now,  the  few  and 

fearless  stand — 
The  struggling  sons  in  Freedom's  van  who  work 

for  mother-land  ! 
Who   dare    the  dungeon  ;    face  the   steel  ;    and 

mount  the  scaffold  high. 
Aye  !   ready  now,  like   men  of  old,   to  bravely 

fight  or  die  ; 

Oh  !    truly  shall  their  mem'ries  live — their  gal 
lant  deeds  be  told, 
And  Allen's   name  shine  through  the   years  a 

burnish'd  lamb  of  gold  ! 
And  Celtic  mothers  pray  to  heav'n  their  sons  as 

brave  may  be  ! 
God  save  Old  Ireland  ! — struggling   Ireland  ! — 

Ireland  o'er  the  sea  ! 
God  save  Old  Ireland  ! — struggling   Ireland  ! — 

Ireland  o'er  the  sea  ! 

Oh  !   may  the  swan-like  dying  notes  of  Erin's 

martyr'd  braves 
Be  wafted   far,   and  move  the  hearts  of  those 

beyond  the  waves — 
The    scatter'd    Celts,    whose    discord   dire    has 

dimm'd  our  glorious  green, — 


'•God  Save  Old  Ireland"  135 

May  all  unite   in  Larkin's  name!  —  let  women 

chant  his  caione  ! 
Oh  !  let  those  hands  that  brush  aside  the  noble 

soldier's  tear, 
Be  stretch'd  to  those  who  vow  revenge  beside 

O'Brien's  bier  ! 
Swear,   swear    you'll    struggle    side    by   side    to 

make  your  country  free  ! 
God  save  Old  Ireland  ! — struggling   Ireland  ! — 

Ireland  o'er  the  sea  ! 
God  save  Old  Ireland  ! — struggling    Ireland  ! — 

Ireland  o'er  the  sea  ! 


There  s  Music  midst  the  Moun 
tains. 

AIR — "The  Nenagh  Boys." 


\  BOVE  the  blooming  heather-hills, 

Along  the  dancing  silver  rills, 
A  joyous  sound  the  soldier  thrills — 

There's  music  midst  the  mountains ! 
From  giant  mountains'  rocky  throne, 
The  battle's  blast  at  length  is  blown  ; 
It  rings  the  notes  of  "  Garry-ovv'n," — 

There's  music  midst  the  mountains! 
Then  rouse  ye  up,  my  gallant  boys  ! 
My  gallant  boys  !  my  gallant  boys  ! 
Then  rouse  ye  up,  my  gallant  boys  ! 

There's  music  midst  the  mountains  ! 


The  martial  sounds:  the  sabres'  clash, 
The  muskets'  bang  and  fiery  flash, 
The  bay'nets'  charge,  and  thunder-crash! 
There's  music  midst  the  mountains  ! 


There 's  Music  midst  the  Mountains.       137 

With  steady  step,  and  side  by  side, 
Descend  like  torrents'  dashing  tide, 
And  fight  or  die  as  heroes  died  ! 

There's  music  midst  the  mountains  ! 
Then  rouse  ye  up,  my  gallant  boys  ! 
My  gallant  boys  !  my  gallant  boys  ! 
Then  rouse  ye  up,  my  gallant  boys  ! 

There's  music  midst  the  mountains ! 

Oh  !  glory  come  to  crown  the  brave 
Who  strike,  a  nation's  life  to  save  ! 
The  laurel  o'er  the  tomb  shall  wave — 

There's  music  midst  the  mountains  ! 
A  blessing  come  on  those  who  stand, 
A  brave,  united,  fearless  band, 
To  guard,  to  save  our  father-land  ! 

There's  music  midst  the  mountains ! 
Then  rouse  ye  up,  my  gallant  boys ! 
My  gallant  boys  !  my  gallant  boys  ! 
Then  rouse  ye  up,  my  gallant  boys  ! 

There's  music  midst  the  mountains  ! 


Farewell,  Dear  Land! 

AIR — "Good-by,  Sweet  Heart,  Good-by." 


A  LONG  the  glen  I  lov'd  in  childhood, 
I  haste  like  one  who  flies  the  foe, — 
By  sunny  brook,  through  silent  wildwood, 

With  drooping  head  I  sadly  go. 
I  bid  a  last  adieu  to-day 

To  home  and  friends,  whose  holy  spell 
Still  clings  around  me  while  I  say, 
"  Farewell,  dear  land,  farewell !  " 


The  sweetest  hopes  of  youth  have  vanish'd, 

Like  light  behind  the  mountain's  brow. 
The  fondest,  truest  friends  are  banish'd, 

And  I  am  leaving  Erin  now. 
The  brave  and  true  afar  have  gone, 

In  foreign  lands  in  peace  to  dwell. 
I,  too,  in  tears  will  wander  on  : — 

Farewell,  dear  land,  farewell ! 


Farewell,  Dear  Land  !  139 

While  yet  the  faintest  hope  was  gleaming, 

I  clung  in  love  to  father's  home  ; 
In  darkest  hour  my  heart  kept  dreaming 

A  better  time  would  surely  come. 
But  ah!  the  tempest  burst  at  last, 

And  hope  sunk  'neath  Oppression's  swell. 
Dear  cot !  thy  happy  hours  have  pass'd  ! 

Farewell,  dear  land,  farewell ! 

When  billows  roll,  when  westward  sailing, 

My  tearful  eyes  will  turn  again 
To  where  I  think  the  stars  are  paling 

Above  that  cot  beside  the  glen. 
Then  gaze  again,  with  beaming  eyes, 

Right  onward  o'er  the  ocean's  swell, 
To  where  Columbia  proudly  lies  : — 

Farewell,  dear  land,  farewell! 


I  risk- American  Brigade 

AIR — ' '  Cruiskeen  Lawn. " 


T)ENEATH  the  crested  pines, 

Behold  the  snowy  lines 

Of  a  thousand  camps  with  waving  flags  array'd— 
O  !  proudly  there  we  see 
"The  Green  Flag"  floating  free 
Above  Old  Ireland's  gallant  new  Brigade, — 

New  Brigade  ! 
Above  Old  Ireland's  gallant  new  Brigade. 

To  guard  "  The  Stripes  and  Stars" 

They  hasten'd  to  the  wars, 
For  they  love  the  land  that  gave  the  Irish  aid, 

And  in  the  days  of  yore 

Bade  us  "welcome"  to  this  shore. 
So  we'll  aid  her  with  our  gallant  new  Brigade — 

New  Brigade ! 
So  we'll  aid  her  with  our  gallant  new  Brigade. 


I  risk- American  Brigade.  141 

"The  Sun-burst"  gleams  to  day 
Midst  forests  far  away — 
It  casts  a  gleam  of  glory  on  each  blade, 
And  cheers  the  soldier's  breast 
With  mem'ries  of  the  West — 
O!   these  thoughts  will  nerve  our    gallant  new 
Brigade  ! 

New  Brigade  ! 

O  !  these  thoughts  will  nerve  our  gallant    new 
Brigade  ! 


O  !  may  the  day  yet  come 
When  trumpets,  fife,  and  drum 

Shall  sound  a  joyous  anthem  through  each  glade  ; 
A  welcome  back  again 
To  our  brave,  our  banish'd  men — 

To  the  soldiers  of  our  gallant  new  Brigade — 
New  Brigade ! 

To  the  soldiers  of  our  gallant  new  Brigade. 


The  Hurlers. 

AIR —  "  When  I  was  bound  Apprentice." 


\  I  7 HAT  joy  on  Sunday  ev'nings 

When  down  the  old  "  boreen" 
A  gay  "gorsoon"  I  hasten'd 

To  join,  on  village  green, 
The  hurlers  young  and  lithesome 

Who  toss'd  the  bounding-ball  ! 
O  !  the  days  of  yore,  on  the  Irish  Shore, 

That  we  never  can  recall  ! 
O  !  the  days  of  yore,  on  the  Irish  Shore, 

That  we  never  can  recall  ! 


My  frieze  was  not  the  finest, 

Yet  little  did  I  care  ; 
My  hat  of  straw  and  ribbons 

Was  "  much  the  worse  of  wear  ;" 
But  soon  I  flung  them  from  me, 

And  hail'd  the  bounding  ball. 


The  Hurlers.  143 

O  !  the  days  of  yore,  on  the  Irish  Shore, 

That  we  never  can  recall ! 
O  !  the  days  of  yore,  on  the  Irish  Shore. 

That  we  never  can  recall  ! 

Like  Celtic  clans  contending 

In  battle's  dreadful  fray, 
We  strove  for  village  honors 

While  rang  the  loud  hurrah 
From  young  and  old  spectators 

Who  watch'd  the  bounding  ball. 
O  !  the  days  of  yore,  on  the  Irish  Shore, 

That  we  never  can  recall  ! 
O  !  the  days  of  yore,  on  the  Irish  Shore, 

That  we  never  can  recall. 

Ah  !  me  !  what  change  has  fallen 

Across  our  path  since  then  ! — 
How  many  gay  companions 

Shall  never  smile  again  ! 
Their  path  of  life  has  ended 

By  Abbey's  ivy  wall  ! 
Ah  !  the  days  of  yore,  on  the  Irish  Shore, 

That  we  never  can  recall  ! 
Ah !  the  days  of  yore,  on  the  Irish  Shore, 

That  we  never  can  recall. 


144  The  Hurlers. 

O  !  some  are  'neath  the  banner 

That  guards  the  exiles'  home, 
And  some  have  drawn  the  sabre 

Beside  the  hills  of  Rome. 
And  some  have  fought  and  fallen 

Beneath  Spoletto's  Wall. 
O  !  the  days  of  yore,  on  the  Irish  Shore, 

That  we  never  can  recall  ! 
O  !  the  days  of  yore,  on  the  Irish  Shore, 

That  we  never  can  recall. 

God  grant  that  joy  may  visit 

Our  peasants'  home  again, 
That  olden  sports  may  cheer  us 

On  village  green  and  glen  ; 
That  hopeful  sons  of  Ireland 

May  drive  the  bounding  ball. 
O  !  the  days  of  yore,  on  the  Irish  Shore, 

That  we  never  can  recall  ! 
O  !  the  days  of  yore,  on  the  Irish  Shore, 

That  we  never  can  recall ! 


The  Fiddler. 

AIR — "  Si.  Kevin  once  was  traveling." 


T   TRAVEL  through  our  charming  isle, 

From  Bann  to  Sunny  Cove, 
And  ever  find  a  cheering  smile 

Where'er  I  love  to  rove. 
I  cheer  the  homes  of  grief  and  care, 

And  wild  the  young  heart  bounds, 
When  'neath  the  roofs  of  peasants'  cots 

My  dear  old  fiddle  sounds. 


O  !  often  in  the  summer  time 

I've  sat  beneath  a  tree, 
And  play'd  while  laughing  couples 

Smil'd  pleasantly  on  me. 
And  "  gorsoons"  left  the  "  hurley-goals  ;" 

And  peasants  stopp'd  their  ploughs, 
And  came  to  hear  my  fiddle's  voice 

Beneath  the  spreading  boughs. 
13 


146  The  Fiddler. 

When  Winter-snows  are  on  the  ground, 

And  nights  are  cold  and  drear, 
Beside  the  blazing  fire  of  turf 

The  farmer's  friends  appear. 
Awhile  they  talk  of  long  ago. 

The  happy  days  of  yore — 
I  strike  my  fiddle  ! — up  they  jump 

And  dance  about  the  floor. 

On  Sunday  nights  the  dance  is  held 

In  some  secluded  spot. 
O  !  then  I  think  myself  a  King 

So  happy  is  my  lot. 
The  gallant  youths  soon  gather  'round — 

They  form  the  dancing  row, — 
They  take  their  places,  wheel  about 

And  "trip  the  heel  and  toe." 

You  talk  of  balls  in  palace  halls, 

And  boast  of  pleasures  there, 
With  music  of  Italian  bands 

You  think  so  "rich  and  rare." 
But  give  me  dear  old  Ireland's  songs 

Beside  the  peasant's  fire, 
And  Irish  airs  for  Irish  jigs, — 

No  better  I  desire. 


From  Far  Away. 

AIR — ' '  The  Honey-Moon. " 


T  IP!  up  !  the  day  is  dawning  bright, 

The  hills  are  tipp'd  with  purple  light, 
The  glassy  lakes  are  lovely  sight, 

Like  happy  hearts  at  rest  ! 
The  Sun  that  lifts  his  head  on  high, 
The  gentle  winds  that  softly  sigh, 
The  streams  that  ripple  laughing  by — 

All  tell  we're  in  the  West. 


We  launch  our  boat  upon  the  bay, 
Beneath  the  tow'ring  mountains  gray  ; 
We  gaze  along  the  sparkling  spray, 

To  scenes  we  lov'd  of  old. 
To  where  on  sunny  Sunday  eves 
We  rov'd  amidst  the  yellow  leaves  ; 
Ah  !  still  my  bounding  bosom  heaves 

With  thoughts  of  bliss  untold. 


148  From  Far  Away. 

The  little  school  is  standing  still, 
The  homestead  stands  on  yonder  hill  ; 
My  eyes  with  tears  of  sorrow  fill  ! 

How  roll'd  the  past  away  ! 
And  stormy  tempests  roll'd  around 
Since  first  I  left  the  Irish  ground. 
A  haven  bright  at  last  I  found, 

Where  Freedom's  zephyrs  play ! 


Come,  brothers  !  ply  the  dripping  oar, 
And  guide  our  boat  to  yonder  shore. 
I'll  stand  on  father's  land  once  more 

And  kiss  the  sacred  sod  ! 
And  though  no  mother's  voice  again 
Can  call  me  up  the  silent  glen, 
I'll  dream  awhile  I'm  young  as  when 

The  shady  paths  I  trod. 


The  Little  Bit  of  Land. 

AIR — "  The.  Green  Fields  of  America." 


A  H  !  tempt  me  not,  my  master,  with  the  offer 

of  your  shining  gold, 
To  win  from  me  the  little  spot  my  sainted  father 

lov'd  of  old, 

To  take  from  me  the  humble  home  that  ne'er  to 
me  or  mine  was  cold. 

Ah !  leave  me !  and  I'll  ask  no  more,  the 

little  bit  of  land  ! 
Ah!    tell  me  not,  to  tempt  me,  that  the  gold 

could  win  a  home  for  me, 
And  peace  and  hope  and  happiness  beyond  the 

distant  rolling  sea. 

No !  nothing,  dearest,  native  Isle !  could  win  my 
loving  heart  from  thee  ! 

Ah !  leave  me,  and  I'll  ask  no  more,  the 
little  bit  of  land! 


15°  The  Little  Bit  of  Land. 

Sure  even  though  the  yellow  grain  is  not  so  rich 

as  long1  ago, 
Though  darkest  blight  is  o'er  the  fields  where  all 

the  young  potatoes  grow  ; 

Though  Famine's  breath  has  wither'd  men,  and 
wak'd  the  wail  of  want  and  woe, 

Ah !  leave  me,  and  I'll  ask  no  more,  the 

little  bit  of  land. 
Before  my  father  went  to  rest,  in  yonder  grave 

beneath  the  trees, 
He  bless'd  me  as  I  wept  and  pray'd  beside  him 

on  my  bended  knees  ; 

He  ask'd  me  still  to  cling  to  home  and  ne'er  to 
cross  the  stormy  seas, 

He  left  me,  and  I  ask  no  more,  a  little 
bit  of  land. 

Ah,  master !  sure  your  fleecy  sheep  have  fertile 

fields  to  feed  upon  ; 
They'll  never  pine  and  die  of  want  as  died  our 

brothers  gaunt  and  wan. 

The  willing  heart,  the  helping  hand,  the  friendly 
neighbors  all  have  gone. 

But  leave  me,  and  I  ask  no  more,  the 
little  bit  of  land. 


Faithful  Unto  Death.  151 

I'm  lonely,  very  lonely  now,  but  yet  one  hope 

my  bosom  thrills : 
That  when  the  iron  hand  of  death  my  throbbing 

heart  forever  stills, 

They'll  lay  me  down  in  holy  ground  beside  my 
darling  Irish  hills, — 

They'll  give  me,  and  I  ask  no  more,  a 
little  bit  of  land. 


Faithful  Unto  Death. 


A    BLESSING  on  the  gallant  heart 

That  fears  no  human  foe, 
That  bravely  dares  the  stroke  of  fate, 

Unmov'd  in  weal  or  woe  ; 
Who  stands  undaunted  on  the  field, 

And  cries  with  latest  breath 
"  I  glory  still  through  good  and  ill, 

I'm  faithful  unto  death. 
I  glory  still  through  good  and  ill, 

I'm  faithful  unto  death." 


152  Faithful  "Unto  Death. 

A  blessing  on  the  sailor  bold 

Afar  from  native  land, 
Who  looks  along  the  stormy  sea, 

The  tiller  in  his  hand. 
And  bravely  guides  the  bounding  bark, 

Despite  the  tempest's  breath 
Midst  ocean's  shock,  by  shoal  and  rock, 

Still  faithful  unto  death. 
Midst  ocean's  shock,  by  shoal  and  rock, 

Still  faithful  unto  death. 

But  O  ! — there's  one  as  bold  and  brave 

As  any  heart  can  be  ; 
As  true  as  soldier  midst  the  foes 

As  sailor  on  the  sea. 
As  valiant  in  the  cause  of  right, 

And  true  to  latest  breath. 
Kind  heaven  sends  such  gallant  friends, 

Still  faithful  unto  death. 
Kind  heaven  sends  such  gallant  friends, 

Still  faithful  unto  death. 

Then  let  the  battle  roll  around, 

Or  tempests  burst  above, 
The  bravest  heart  is  that  which  throbs 

With  patriotic  love. 


A   Green  Sod  from  Erin.  153 

The  honest  son — the  man  that  guards 

That  cause  to  latest  breath, — 
And  ere  he  dies  in  triumph  cries, 

"I'm  faithful  unto  death. 
And  ere  he  dies  in  triumph  cries, 

"  I'm  faithful  unto  death." 


A   Green  Sod  from  Rrin. 


T  HAVE  brought  a  bright  treasure 

From  home's  holy  shrine, 
Where  the  friends  who  have  lov'd  me 

Still  loving  repine. 
How  verdant  the  grass  is  ! 

How  fresh  is  the  clay  ! 
Sweet  emerald  treasure 

From  home  far  away  ! 

Little  sod  ! — I  once  found  it 

Beside  the  old  door 
Where  my  mother  caress'd  me 

In  sweet  days  of  yore  ! 


154  -A   Green  Sod  from  Erin. 

Where  footsteps  of  childhood 

First  totter'd  in  play. 
Sweet  emerald  treasure 

From  home  far  away  ! 

Wildest  storms  from  the  mountains 

Have  swept  o'er  it  long 
Yet  they  hurt  it  no  more  than 

A  summer  bird's  song. 
And  sunlight  danced  o'er  it 

Till  ev'ning  grew  gray, 
Sweet  emerald  treasure 

From  home  far  away. 

As  the  tears  of  the  loved  ones 

Have  fallen  in  show'rs 
O'er  this  green  sod — memento 

Of  happier  hours. 
So  those  of  the  exile 

Shall  moisten  the  clay. 
Sweet  emerald  treasure 

From  home  far  away. 


The  Exile  s  Love. 

AIR — "My  Lave  is  like  the  red,  red  Rose. 


'"PHE  lover  sings  his  plaintive  songs, 

The  soldier  thrilling  strains, 
The  shepherd  tunes  his  shrilly  pipe 

Upon  the  distant   plains. 
But  sweeter  far  for  me — my  friends — 

When  Summer's  night  is  nigh 
To  sit  beneath  the  forest  trees 

And  hear  the  zephyrs'  sigh. 

I  hear  them  sigh,  and  then  I  think 

They  come  from  o'er  the  sea, 
From  lovely,  verdant  Irish  vales 

With  tales  of  home  for  me. 
Ah,  dearest  love  !  my  native  Isle  ! 

My  heart  is  all  thine  own  ! 
It  seems  to  fly  to  thee  at  eve, 

And  leave  me  here  alone  ! 


156  The  Exiles  Love. 

I  think  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  hills 

Behind  my  father's  home 
The  same  that  swells  the  vessel's  sails 

And  lifts  the  curling  foam. 
And  bears  some  long-departed  voice 

O'er  seas  from  shore  to  shore, 
To  whisper  through  those  lonely  woods 

Thy  name,  Old  Isle  asthore  ! 

Dear  Ireland  !  while  my  life  remains 

My  love  shall  never  die  ! 
When  fondest  mem'ries  come  thy  name 

Shall  mingle  with  each  sigh. 
My  dearest  love  !  my  darling  isle  ! 

My  heart  is  all  thine  own  ! 
It  seems  to  fly  to  thee  at  eve 

And  leave  me  here  alone  ! 


Christmas  on  the  Prairies. 

AIR  —  "  Tramp,  Tramp." 


C  EATED  here  this  Christmas  night 

In  our  prairie  home  so  bright ; 
Far  away  from  lovely  Erin  o'er  the  sea  ; 
We  will  talk  of  other  days, 
We  will  sing  the  Celtic  lays, 
We  will  swear  to  make  our  sufif 'ring  mother  free  ; 
High,  high,  high,  we  raise  the  wine-cun, 
Pledging  our  lives,  Old  Land,  for  thee  ! 
We  will  ne'er  deny  the  claim 
Of  our  isle  of  olden  fame — 
We  will  never  cease  to  strive  to  set  her  free  ! 


Rich  and  lovely  lands  we  own 
Where  the  golden  grain  is  sown, 
And  our  countless  flocks  are  grazing  o'er  the 
plains  ; 

u 


158  Christmas  on  the  Prairies. 

Yet  though  peace  and  plenty  smile 
Far  from  Erin's  lovely  isle, 

We  will  ne'er  forget  our  country,  though  in  chains. 
High,  high,  high,  we  raise  the  wine-cup 
Pledging  our  lives,  Old  Land,  for  thee  ! 
We  will  ne'er  deny  the  claim 
Of  our  isle  of  olden  fame — 
We  will  never  cease  to  strive  to  set  her  free  ! 

Gallant  leaders  lie  to-day, 

In  the  prisons  far  away, 
For  the  crime  of  loving  thee,  our  lovely  Queen  ' 

For  they  sought  to  strike  a  blow 

Where  the  Lee  and  Liffey  flow, 
And  to  raise  again  our  own  beloved  Green  ! 
High,  high,  high,  we  raise  the  wine-cup 
Pledging  our  lives,  Old  Land,  to  thee  ! 

We  will  ne'er  deny  the  claim 

Of  our  isle  of  olden  fame — 
We  will  never  cease  to  strive  to  set  her  free ! 


The  Fenian  Name. 

AIR — "None  can  Love  like  an  Irishman." 


HPHE  ardent  Fenians  proudly  boast 

Their  love  for  Erin  o'er  the  waves, 
And  pant  to  meet  the  Saxon  host 

In  fight  beside  their  fathers'  graves. 
If  love  for  Ireland  lifts  them  up 

Above  vile  faction,  class,  or  clan 
Then  here's  my  hand  !  I  love  my  land, 

And  claim  the  name  of  Fenian-man  ! 

If  while  they  seek  to  set  her  free 

They  join  in  bonds  of  trust  and  love 
That  all  may  faithful  brothers  be 

And  win  the  smile  of  God  above  ! 
Nor  fear  the  light,  nor  Father's  gaze, 

Nor  fall  beneath  Religion's  ban. 
O  !  here's  my  hand  !  I  love  my  land, 

And  claim  the  name  of  Fenian-man  ! 


160  Farewell  of  the  Irish  Maiden. 

The  Isle  that  bears  upon  its  breast 

The  countless  temples,  shrines  of  God  ; 
And  where  the  dust  of  countless  blest 

Lies  mingled  with  our  native  sod, 
Shall  yet  be  freed  by  gallant  men 

Who  serve  no  faction,  class  or  clan  ! 
Who  grasp  the  hand  for  native  land 

And  claim  the  name  of  Irishman  ! 


Farewell  of  the  Irish  Maiden. 

r\  !  MOTHER  dear  !  the  hour  has  come  ! 

The  big  ship  spreads  her  wings  ! 
"  The  Starry  Flag"  is  floating  free ; 

The  joyful  sailor  sings. 
While  I,  thy  daughter,  weep  and  wail. 

I'll  never  see  you  more  ! 
We  sail  away  for  New  York  bay, 

From  Ireland's  sainted  shore  ! 

I'll  clasp  my  hands  across  my  eyes 

When  you  and  I  must  part  ; 
To  see  your  anguish,  Mother  dear  ! 

Would  break  my  bursting  heart  ! 


Farewell  of  the  Irish  Maiden.  161 

One  long,  last  look  when  out  at  sea, 

One  pray'r  for  you,  asthore  ! 
When  fade  away  the  sparkling  bay 

And  Ireland's  sainted  shore  ! 

When  far  away  upon  the  deep 

I'll  take  "  the  Beads"  you  gave 
And  pray  to  Mary,  "  Mother  mild," 

Who  smiles  along  the  wave. 
And  beg  Her  smile  on  mother's  heart 

Whom  I  shall  see  no  more 
When  fade  away  the  sparkling  bay 

\nd  Ireland's  sainted  shore  ! 

I'll  keep  the  little  sod  of  earth 

You  took  from  near  our  home, 
And  bear  it  near  me  through  my  life 

Wherever  I  may  roam  ! 
My  dust  shall  mix  with  Irish  earth 

When  I  shall  be  no  more  ! 
Far,  far  away  from  yonder  bay 

And  Ireland's  sainted  shore  ! 

THE     END. 


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